⚠️ This article contains spoilers for Wingless in the Sky (Book 1), up to and including Act 2.
"I know I can be harsh to some people. Especially those who are stupid or stubbornly wrong. And I'm not afraid to tell it right to their faces. Even to Grandmasters and Archmages."
— Gaspar
Full name: Master Gaspar Leonde
Rank: Senior Master of the Mage Conclave
Origin: Arcani; born into a mage family
Position: Head of Empress Maren's personal battle mage escort; Imperial investigator
His father was a Grandmaster; his mother a battle mage in the red robes, who died young in service as most of them do. Gaspar was raised by his father alone, immersed in wizarding circles from his earliest years. By the time he reached his rank of Senior Master, he had a reputation that preceded him in every room he entered: capable, ambitious, brilliant — and an insufferable ass. Not merely by ordinary standards, but by the standards of mages, who are themselves all insufferable. When other mages complained about someone's attitude, that was something.
He has genuine discontent with how the Conclave is run, and is not shy about saying so to the faces of Grandmasters and Archmages alike. They cannot ignore his abilities. They will not let him rise. The ceiling above him is polished smooth from the number of times he has knocked his head against it.
Sharp jaw. Dark eyes. Restless, contained energy — the kind that belongs to someone used to thinking on his feet. Wears expensive indigo silk robes, usually immaculate. Handsome in a way that is immediately apparent and somewhat inconvenient for anyone trying to stay focused in his presence.
Lia notices it the moment he starts pacing during their first lesson. She is annoyed at herself for noticing.
Assigned to teach Lia as a new apprentice. The lesson is supposed to be a simple transmutation exercise — iron to copper, basic work, the focus pyramid doing most of the heavy lifting. It goes badly.
She botches the incantation. The pyramid cracks. Lightning erupts from it — strikes the ceiling, the walls, Gaspar's shoulder. His expensive indigo robes catch fire. He shouts at her to stop. She cannot stop; her heart magic has latched onto the pyramid's frequency. The pyramid explodes. More lightning, uncontrolled and wild. The room fills with it. Stone cracking, shelves shattering, books igniting.
A crystal shard cuts his cheek. Blood running down that sharp jaw.
When the lightning finally dies, he looks at the destroyed room, then at her.
"You are incompatible with the arcane arts. Fundamentally, utterly incompatible. I wouldn't let you into a wizarding tower as a cleaning woman."
Each word a knife. Said with cold contempt, not rage.
What follows is not Lia's fault in any rational accounting — what rises in her chest is pain given form, every humiliation and failure at once, unstoppable. The heart magic erupts. He survives by conjuring a defence orb mid-blast. Falls from the tower. Breaks a leg. Badly concussed. Lives.
Maren's verdict, delivered dry to the shaken Lia shortly after: "Handsome fellow, that young mage. And an insufferable ass, bigger even than old Polimon."
Maren visits him privately in the palace hospital wing, Grevin left outside the door. He is pale, leaner than usual, bandaged cheek, still clearly angry. He addresses her with formal courtesy that barely conceals the ice underneath.
She does not apologize. She offers him something better: head of her personal battle mage escort — exempt from Conclave hierarchy, reporting only to her, positioned at the very centre of Imperial power, paid better than any Archmage.
He has conditions. He will not act against fellow mages. He is no traitor.
She has conditions. He will forgive Lia and use whatever influence he has to protect her from mage retribution. He will help find the stolen Bloodstone.
He takes a long moment. Then:
"You are persuasive as ever. And I am no fool to refuse such an opportunity for the sake of wounded pride."
"The Empress can talk a fish into leaving the water."
He reports directly to Maren, bypassing Grevin entirely. His first significant intelligence from inside the Conclave: every senior mage wants the Bloodstone — not merely because it sustains Deepfolk life, but because a Bloodstone, already attuned to Deepfolk systems at a fundamental level, could theoretically allow a human mage to operate their mechanisms, access their archives, command their constructs. Things that have never been possible. Things every Grandmaster dreams about.
"The possibilities… The power… it is remarkable."
"Do you want it?" Maren asks him directly.
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious. But I'm not stupid enough to steal a sacred object from foreign dignitaries. Not when the Empress herself is investigating."
His assessment: either someone is hiding it very well, or it was never in the Conclave at all. He does not yet know which. He keeps watching. He treats punctuality as a competitive sport — it is the first thing Maren notices about him as an employee, and the reason she is genuinely concerned when he turns up late.
He arrives one morning dishevelled, exhausted, robes rumpled, hair uncombed. He spent the entire night in his laboratory and slept through his own alarm spell. He meets Maren's eyes with genuine, almost boyish shame.
She finds it unexpectedly charming, which she notes and files away.
Instead of taking his report immediately, she leads him down three locked doors and into her private walled garden — a space almost no one has seen. Small trees, subtle flowers, a fountain, a laurel, morning sun through the leaves. King Marius designed it. She has kept it exactly as he left it.
Gaspar looks at it for a moment and then: "This is not a garden. It's a work of art." Precise. Genuine. The appreciation of someone who actually knows the difference.
They drink white wine in the gazebo. He compliments her rule; she deflects by noting Marius had to die before her rule became possible. He asks, carefully, whether she still practises magic. She admits to playing with a focus artifact occasionally, that she is technically still an apprentice, that the Conclave would laugh at her current attempts. He offers to teach her, smiling.
"I wonder at you, Master Gaspar," she says. "I am honestly enjoying the time I'm spending with you. This is quite surprising."
"Surprising?"
She explains his reputation. He doesn't deny it. "I know I can be harsh to some people. Especially those who are stupid or stubbornly wrong. And I'm not afraid to tell it right to their faces." He adds, with a wicked grin, that if Archmage Pollux himself turns out to have stolen the Bloodstone, it would be the best thing to happen to the Conclave in years. "Then that old bore would get executed!"
Maren laughs. Genuinely. This man is one of a kind.
His verdict on her, when she pushes: "You're absolutely brilliant. And if anyone thinks otherwise, they're very stupid and wrong themselves." A mage speaking genuine compliments — not political flattery. Something passes between them that neither names.
Gaspar's role in the Bloodstone search proves critical. He knows the Conclave from the inside, understands both its capabilities and its politics, and is not afraid to follow the evidence wherever it leads — including toward people above his old rank. What he eventually uncovers, and how it changes everything, is for the reader to discover.
This article is about a Character — Supporting Character
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