The Villain Professor's Second Chance

"We aim for the next transport," I said, my voice echoing softly against the damp walls. "Council supply shipments leave for Aetherion every few hours. We'll infiltrate one."

Asterion nodded, though his eyes flickered with the question he wouldn't ask: "And if something goes wrong?" We both knew the answer to that.

As if reading his unspoken doubt, I let my gaze harden a fraction. "If they've already prepared a trap, so be it. We adapt."

His jaw tensed, but he said nothing. Only gave the faintest sign of agreement—an incline of his chin. He'd nearly died beside me once already, tangling with meltdown anomalies and whatever plots the Devil Coffins had been stirring. Yet here he stood, forging ahead. Maybe that was his brand of insanity. Or maybe he just hated feeling powerless. I didn't mind. As long as he stayed effective, he could keep his illusions of choice.

We left the courtyard, cutting through backstreets until we reached a vantage point overlooking the Council's transit yard on the outskirts of the city. It was less crowded than I expected—likely because the meltdown had forced them to reroute resources. Still, a handful of watchers milled about, checking manifests and guiding carriage crews. Enchanted carriages, each a masterpiece of arcane engineering, were lined up in neat rows, waiting to be lowered into the oceanic tunnels that led to Aetherion.

I concealed us behind a dilapidated stack of crates, letting my illusions bleed into the surroundings. From this vantage, we could observe which carriage might be short-staffed, or at least unsupervised enough to allow us to slip in. A robed clerk marched down the line, scribbling notes on a clipboard that pulsed with a faint magical glow. An enforcer in standard Council leather paused near the third carriage, scanning the small group of assigned personnel with practiced disinterest.

"There," I murmured, pointing to a carriage near the far end. Its driver stood alone, tapping his foot impatiently as if waiting for the rest of his team to arrive. The manifest sheets on the side glowed a dim teal, indicating all cargo had been loaded but was yet to be verified. Only two crew members were in sight—a prime vulnerability.

Asterion nodded. "A good pick. That one's definitely not fully staffed."

We waited a few minutes longer, ensuring no last-minute additions showed up. No one did. The driver paced, glanced at his pocket watch, and grumbled. The guard assigned to him was nowhere to be seen. Possibly called away or late. Perfect.

We moved swiftly, crossing the distance under the cover of illusions. Asterion approached the driver from behind, his footsteps silent. He struck once, a single blow to the base of the man's skull, dropping him neatly. The driver slumped to the ground with only a faint groan. Asterion dragged him behind a stack of crates.

Meanwhile, I crouched by the carriage's side. The wards glimmered faintly, shaped like curling script etched in invisible ink. My mana flared as I traced the runes with slow care, applying just enough disruption to pass without tripping alarms. They yielded to my incantation, snapping open with a brief flash of light.

Asterion joined me, his face neutral but for the slight tension in his brow. We each slipped inside, illusions rippling as we took on the appearances of Council staff. Asterion's new face belonged to a nondescript enforcer—square-jawed, stern-eyed. My own illusions adopted a scholar's features, typical of the academics the Council liked to send on supply runs, all curt nods and dispassionate stares. A visage so ordinary, it practically invited people to forget they'd seen me.

Within moments, we sealed ourselves in the carriage. The interior was bigger than the outside suggested, layered in dimensional folding that gave us standing room and space for cargo. I took a quick look around—crates labeled with Council insignias, some shimmering faintly under more wards. This wasn't everyday cargo. Then my gaze stopped on a sealed compartment at the back, its locks reinforced with containment sigils. My gut twisted. A secret load. Something the Council didn't want prying eyes on.

I exchanged a glance with Asterion. He raised an eyebrow, but neither of us spoke. We'd address that soon enough. For now, we needed to secure our infiltration.

Minutes later, the carriage lurched. From a small window, I saw a replacement driver climb aboard—possibly the missing guard or a late-coming staffer pressed into service. They didn't question our presence, not with illusions so neatly in place. The carriage started forward, rolling onto a large platform that would descend into the watery depths. The rhythmic hum of the arcane engine filled my ears, a low drone that set my teeth on edge. \\n\\nWe descended into the oceanic tunnel, the world outside turning dark, broken only by ward-lamps placed along the route. The walls shimmered with protective enchantments, each one a swirl of runes that glowed a faint turquoise against the water's crushing pressure. I could almost feel the tension in the air, as though the fortress itself sensed an intrusion.

Silence stretched between me and Asterion. I sat with my back straight, illusions unwavering, my mind on high alert for the slightest sign we'd been compromised. Something about this felt wrong, like a hush before a storm. The Council fortress, I recalled, was no stranger to infiltration attempts, and they might be more prepared than we thought.

As we rattled deeper into Aetherion's security network, I surveyed the carriage's contents more closely. The official manifests listed mundane goods: rations, medical supplies, a handful of arcane reagents. But if that was all, there would be no reason for multiple containment wards. My guess was the sealed compartment contained something more crucial—maybe research notes on meltdown events, or an artifact tied to Belisarius's resurrection. Possibly contraband they'd seized from the meltdown site.

By chance, I discovered a small folder tucked beneath the other cargo papers. The crisp parchment was stamped with the Council's highest classification seal, warnings about unauthorized reading punishable by severe penalty. My illusions flickered around me, ensuring no one in the carriage took note as I skimmed it. Restricted access points. Leyline anomalies. References to events spanning back further than any meltdown we'd heard of. They had been studying the potential for large-scale meltdown manipulation for quite some time. \\n\\nAsterion watched from the corner of his eye, but he made no move to stop me. He, too, recognized the significance. The meltdown that brought Belisarius back wasn't a spontaneous accident. The Council had known meltdown interference was possible. They'd waited, or planned. The question was why.

We felt the carriage slow, the hum of the engine reducing to a muted vibration. I shoved the folder back in place. My mind swirled with new possibilities, each one bleaker than the last. Belisarius was only a piece of a puzzle that spanned decades, maybe longer. We were dealing with an institution that had the resources to bury entire wars under paperwork, to decide who lived and who returned from the dead.
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Asterion's gaze met mine—guarded, but resolute. Neither of us needed to speak. We understood the weight of what we'd found. If the Council truly orchestrated or condoned meltdown resurrection, we were diving into a labyrinth that might prove far deadlier than any meltdown itself.

The carriage lurched to a stop. Through the small window, I saw a massive gate seal behind us, shutting out the watery tunnel. A second gate slid open ahead, revealing a dock-like platform where Council personnel waited. My grip tightened around the illusions that shaped my face, ensuring not a flicker escaped. Asterion did the same. This was the final threshold. If we were discovered here, we'd have to fight our way out—a prospect that might end in blood and failure.

The doors swung open, and the air that rushed in carried a faint tang of brine mixed with the underlying hum of potent wards. Arcane lights shimmered across the high, curved ceilings—an architectural marvel built in an environment no normal mortal would attempt. This was Aetherion, the beating heart of the Council's secrets.

I rose, stepping out with Asterion a half-pace behind, the cloak of illusions still draped over both of us. A handful of watchers gave us a cursory glance. Another pair of enforcers busied themselves unloading cargo from adjacent carriages. The fortress's interior was alive with the quiet efficiency of people who believed in their absolute dominion.

I felt the tension coil in my chest, mirrored by Asterion's subtle shift in stance. My mind replayed the meltdown, the runes on the Harbinger's bones, the revelations in the stolen file. The Council was involved in something beyond anything I'd imagined. Belisarius's resurrection was only a fragment of their grand design.

But if they thought they could manipulate the Tapestry unchallenged, they were mistaken. If they believed the meltdown was the end of their hidden experiment, I'd prove otherwise. We'd come to Aetherion to force answers into the light, or tear the place apart in the attempt.

I caught Asterion's eye. In that brief glance, we both acknowledged the next step. We would follow the routine, meld into the fortress's daily operation, glean every scrap of intelligence. Then we'd decide how to unmask the puppeteers behind this madness. A single slip might bring the entire fortress down on us. Yet it had to be done.

Together, we moved into the corridor, adopting the stiff posture of those who belonged here. The illusions held under the bright arcane lamps, each footstep echoing off the polished floors. My heart beat with a steely calm. We had entered the lion's den, where wards and watchers could unmake us if we faltered.

But I was Draven.

I did not intend to falter.

Aetherion awaited.