The Extra's Rise-Chapter 492: Archmage Charlotte (1)

I stepped out of my father’s office and immediately licked my lips. They always went dry when I was irritated, and right now I could’ve sucked the moisture out of a desert and still been annoyed. Arthur was out there — probably swinging a sword at some miasma-dripping vampire with Seraphina practically glued to his side, fluttering her lashes like she wasn’t trained to kill a man in thirty-seven different ways.

I wasn’t worried about him dying. Arthur was the kind of person who could stumble through a war zone and come out the other side with cleaner boots. No, I was worried about her. The whole noble, deadly princess act, the gentle discipline, the way she stood next to him like she’d always belonged there.

That couldn’t be allowed. Absolutely not.

But it wasn’t just petty jealousy. Not entirely. Because I’d seen the gap too. Arthur wasn’t just stronger — he was more. Smarter in the ways that mattered, quicker to adapt, faster to see through lies. I’d always been the one people expected to lead. The one with the Gift, the bloodline, the empire behind her. But when it came down to it, he’d pulled ahead.

I hated that. Not because he’d passed me, but because I didn’t want to be left behind.

The reports from the Eastern front arrived daily on my father’s desk, and I’d taken to stealing them before his advisors could sanitize the contents for imperial consumption. Three major victories in the past month alone. The Battle of White Moon Pass. The Allied Offensive that reclaimed three cities. The defense of Cedar Ridge where Arthur had held the line for three days with minimal resources.

Each report mentioned him. Not always by name—sometimes as "Draykar’s disciple" or "the Mount Hua representative"—but I knew. I always knew.

Meanwhile, I was stuck in Avalon City, attending diplomatic functions and reassuring nobles that yes, the war was going splendidly, and no, there was absolutely no chance vampires would reach the capital. The perfect princess. The imperial figurehead. Useless.

So I did the thing I swore I’d never do unless I absolutely had to. I pulled out my phone, took a deep breath, and dialed the number.

It rang once.

"Hello, Master. I need your help."

Twenty minutes later, a sleek, military-grade car glided into the inner courtyard of the Imperial Palace. The guards didn’t even blink, just stood a little straighter. When the door hissed open, out stepped a woman with red hair like burning thread and eyes like cut emerald. She wore robes that flickered with embedded circuit-threads — old magic fused with cutting-edge tech, because Charlotte Alaric didn’t believe in choosing just one apocalypse-proof method of self-defense.

My father, Emperor of the Slatemark Empire and not easily impressed, watched her approach from the throne room stairs with the expression of someone preparing for a very polite natural disaster.

"Zenith of Magic," he said. "Archmage. Tower Master. To what do I owe this honor?"

Charlotte offered a bow so shallow it was almost a smirk.

"Your Majesty. I’m here for my disciple."

He turned his crimson gaze toward me, and I could practically hear the internal sigh. The man had orchestrated half the empire’s politics like a chessboard, but his daughter taking control of her own future still managed to catch him off guard.

"You knew she was my master," I said with a shrug. "That was your plan, wasn’t it? Tie the Tower of Magic to the Empire."

He closed his eyes briefly, then reopened them with the practiced serenity of someone pretending their daughter hadn’t just poked a hole in three diplomatic threads at once.

"She cannot leave Avalon City," he said, his tone making it clear this wasn’t a request but an imperial decree.

Charlotte nodded as if that were a suggestion she might consider if she were feeling particularly generous.

"She won’t," she replied. "She’ll train under me here. On neutral ground. No politics. Just power."

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then he turned his back, a signal in itself.

"Do as you wish," he said, which in imperial-speak meant, "I disapprove but recognize I can’t stop you without causing an incident."

I smiled, a real one this time. "Thank you, Father."

And then I turned toward Charlotte. She gave me a look — not exactly warm, but not cold either. More like a flame in a lantern: controlled, but only just.

"Let’s begin," she said.

And that was that. I’d made my move. If Arthur was going to burn like a star on the battlefield, then I would become the light that lit the sky behind him.

The car’s doors hissed shut behind us with the smooth finality of a prison cell. A very comfortable, magically-reinforced, self-driving prison cell, but a prison cell nonetheless — especially once Charlotte flopped onto the seat like a cat made of overcooked noodles.

To most of the world, Charlotte Alaric was the terrifying and untouchable Zenith of Magic — a woman who could erase cities if she so much as tripped in the wrong direction. Revered. Feared. Dignified. The sort of person you bowed to, preferably from orbit.

Unfortunately, I knew better.

"You really treat your master like this?" she asked, half-buried in her seat, arms sprawled like she was auditioning for the role of Magical Corpse Number One. Her voice was the theatrical kind of tired — the sort that required energy to sound that defeated.

"Yes," I replied without hesitation.

She gave a long, theatrical sigh, like a balloon deflating in defeat. "You know," she muttered, "training Arthur was way more fun. At least he made good tea."

My jaw tensed. It wasn’t the tea comment. It was the name.

Charlotte noticed instantly. Of course she did. She didn’t miss a damn thing unless she was trying to. Her emerald eyes flicked sideways with the precision of a laser-guided missile.

"You want to get stronger for him, don’t you?" she asked, far too smug for someone wearing mismatched socks and a coffee stain on her robe.

I didn’t answer. I considered lying. Briefly. And then I remembered who I was talking to and just nodded once.

Charlotte practically glowed. If she’d had a tail, it would’ve been wagging. "Aww," she said, beaming like a witch who’d just discovered a new potion ingredient in her soup. "My little wild girl’s grown up all soft and romantic. Arthur really is a miracle worker. I should thank him again. Maybe send him a fruit basket. Or a rocket launcher."

"Shut up, Master," I muttered into my hand.

She cackled. Loudly. It echoed in the enclosed space and made the car lights flicker slightly, which was probably unrelated but still felt like the vehicle itself was laughing at me too.

I stared out the window at the familiar city skyline as we pulled away from the palace. I was beginning to regret this decision.

Not the training. That was necessary.

But the part where I had to spend hours with Charlotte Alaric?

Yeah, I’d forgotten what fresh hell that was.