This was why he never wore the black robes, Mylo thought. People thought they could challenge you and get away with it because they were up and coming. They never learned. No one ever learned that mages were proud, proud people— not until it was too late. For them, anyway.
The lanky mage stepped forward and brushed bits of rubble off the new, glittering statue of a panicked-looking mage. Oh, this one was young, too. Pity. Now he was young /crystal/. “I’m sure you’ll turn back in a few years,” Mylo told the statue, even though the mage wouldn’t be able to hear him. Mylo’s spells, especially his transmutations, were... thorough. “Or you might not. Ah, such is life.” He patted the statue’s cheek and shoved his hands in the pocket of his mage’s robe- this one wasn’t black, but instead a dull slate-grey, the color worn by those who didn’t wish to divulge their mage’s rank to anyone.
