The owner looms over our table, his shadow swallowing what little light remains. My muscles tense instinctively—I could be out the door in three seconds flat. I''ve mapped every exit, calculated every angle. Old habits.


    But something stops me. Maybe it''s the way Wentworth''s trying to maintain his dignity while clearly terrified. Or maybe it''s the realisation that I''m tired of running. Not from danger—I''ll always run toward that—but from normal human interaction.


    "Your friends," the owner growls, his voice like gravel underfoot, "have terrible manners."


    "They''re not my—" I start, then stop myself. Because they are, aren''t they? Somehow, despite everything, I''ve acquired friends. Actual friends. Not comrades-in-arms or fellow mercenaries bound by necessity, but people who choose to spend time with me. Even if they did just abandon me to face the consequences of Cain''s stupidity.


    "I apologize for the disruption," Wentworth says, his voice only slightly higher than normal. "I assure you, we can provide appropriate compensation for any damages incurred."


    The owner''s eyes narrow. "We?"


    Wentworth looks at me, silently pleading. I could leave him here. Should leave him here. He''s been nothing but a nuisance with his constant questions about my tattoo.


    But I stay seated.


    "Yeah," I say. "We''ll cover it."


    Wentworth''s relief is palpable. The owner crosses his massive arms, tattoos rippling across his skin. Not tribal markings like mine—just decorative ink. Still, I find myself studying them with unexpected interest.


    "Plates, glasses, food waste, cleanup, plus inconvenience to my other customers," the owner tallies. "That''ll be thirty-five silvers."


    Wentworth''s eyebrows shoot up. "That seems rather steep for a few broken dishes."


    The owner leans in. "You want to negotiate, pretty boy?"


    "We''ll pay it," I interrupt before Wentworth can make things worse. "Show him your purse, Covington."


    Wentworth hesitates and then produces an ornate leather wallet. As he counts out coins, I notice his hands are steady despite everything. Maybe there''s more to him than I thought.


    "I must say," he murmurs as the owner collects the payment, "I didn''t expect you to remain. Your friends certainly demonstrated the more conventional response to such a predicament."


    "They''re not—" I stop again, sighing. "Yeah, well. I''m full of surprises."


    The owner pockets the money with a grunt that might be gratitude before returning to the kitchen. The other patrons gradually resume their conversations, the entertainment over.


    "I suppose I should thank you," Wentworth says, straightening his jacket. "For not abandoning me to face that gentleman''s wrath alone."


    I shrug. "You paid."


    "Indeed. However, your presence was... reassuring. That man seemed less inclined to physical violence with you here."


    I almost smile at that. "Smart observation."


    An awkward silence settles between us. Wentworth fidgets with his empty teacup, clearly building up to something.


    "So," he finally says, "about those markings of yours—"


    "One question," I interrupt. "You get one question. Then we leave."


    His eyes widen with excitement. "Truly? Well, I must choose wisely then." He thinks for a moment, fingers drumming on the table. "Very well. Is it accurate to say that the tattoo transforms into a physical weapon through some manner of energy transference, and if so, does the Academy''s ambient magical field interfere with this process due to competing thaumaturgical resonances?"


    "That''s two questions."


    "It''s a compound inquiry on a single subject," he counters.


    I stare at him. He stares back, unblinking.


    "Fine," I concede. "Yes to both. The Academy''s magic messes with my... ability. But I''m figuring it out."


    Wentworth looks like he might explode with excitement. "Fascinating! This confirms several of my theories regarding non-standard magical interfaces and environmental interference patterns. I''ve been researching similar phenomena in—"


    I stand up. "We''re done."


    "But—"


    "One question. That was our deal."


    He sighs but rises as well. "Fair enough. Though I hope you''ll consider further discussion at a later date. My research could potentially help you understand your own abilities better."


    As we walk toward the door, I find myself considering his offer. A week ago, I would have shut him down without hesitation. Now... I''m not so sure.


    What the hell is happening to me?


    We leave the café behind, stepping into the cool evening air. The streets have quieted, with only a few stragglers hurrying to their destinations. I notice Wentworth falling into step beside me rather than heading off in his own direction.


    "You''re going this way?" I ask, gesturing vaguely toward the Academy.


    "Indeed. It appears our paths align for the moment." He adjusts his collar, a nervous habit I''ve noticed before. "My dormitory is in the east wing."


    I nod, and we continue in silence. The quiet between us isn''t exactly comfortable, but it''s not unbearable either. Wentworth keeps glancing at me from the corner of his eye, clearly bursting with more questions. His fingers twitch slightly, like he''s mentally drafting notes. The scholarly type through and through.


    As we walk, a thought surfaces in my mind. Something I''ve been wondering about since arriving at this place. Might as well use Wentworth''s knowledge for something practical.


    "When does one graduate from this academy?" I ask, breaking the silence. "I''ve seen students of all ages. How long is the academic life exactly?"


    At the exact same moment, Wentworth turns to me and asks, "How skilled are you with the blade, exactly? Don''t lie to me."


    We both stop walking, surprised by the collision of questions. For a moment, I consider ignoring his and pressing my own, but something in his direct approach catches me off guard. No one at the Academy besides the Enforcers has been this straightforward with me before.


    "You first," I say, crossing my arms. "Then I''ll consider answering yours."


    Wentworth nods, accepting the terms. "Graduation from the Grand Academy is not determined by years of attendance but by proficiency demonstration. Students must pass a series of examinations in their chosen magical disciplines. Some exceptionally gifted individuals complete their studies in three years, while others may take seven or more. The average is five years."


    He gestures to a nearby bench, and I reluctantly follow him to sit. No one else is around, and I can see all approaches clearly from this position.


    "Additionally," he continues, "many students choose to pursue multiple disciplines or advanced specializations, extending their time here considerably. I myself am in my fourth year, focusing primarily on artifice and thaumaturgical engineering."


    That explains the varying ages, though it doesn''t help my situation much. I have no intention of staying here long enough to "graduate" in any formal sense.


    "Your turn," Wentworth says, his eyes bright with curiosity. "The blade. Your proficiency. No embellishment necessary."


    I consider lying or giving some vague non-answer, but what''s the point? He''s seen me fight, if only briefly.


    "Eleven years of training with mercenaries," I say flatly. "Started when I was six. Daily drills, combat scenarios, real battlefield experience. I can use any edged weapon effectively, but I prefer my own."


    "The knife from your tattoo," he says, not as a question.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    I nod once.


    "And against a trained swordsman? How would you fare?"


    "That''s a second question," I point out.


    "Consider it a clarification."


    I almost smile at his persistence. "Depends on the swordsman. But I''ve killed men with decades more experience than me."


    Wentworth''s expression doesn''t change, but I notice his posture shifts slightly. Not fear—something more like respect.


    "I suspected as much," he says quietly. "Your movements have a... precision that comes only from extensive combat experience."


    We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of my admission hanging between us. I''ve never spoken so directly about my skills to anyone at the Academy. It feels strange, almost reckless.


    "Why did you want to know?" I finally ask.


    Wentworth looks up at the darkening sky. "Knowledge is valuable. Accurate knowledge, doubly so."


    I stare at Wentworth, turning his words over in my mind. "Knowledge is valuable. Accurate knowledge, doubly so." Something about his response feels calculated, like he''s cataloguing my abilities for future reference. Have I shared too much? The mercenary in me—the survivor—bristles at the thought.


    Before I can press him further, the diner door behind us explodes open. The owner barrels out, face flushed crimson like a battle flag. His eyes dart frantically until they lock onto us—onto Wentworth specifically.


    "This is fake, you fucker!" he bellows, holding up one of the silver coins. Even from this distance, I can see it doesn''t have the proper gleam. Counterfeit.


    Wentworth doesn''t flinch, doesn''t apologize, doesn''t even look surprised. His posture shifts subtly, and without looking at me, he says one word: "Run."


    Then he''s off, moving with unexpected speed for someone so proper. I hesitate for a split second. Part of me—the part shaped by eleven years of mercenary training—wants to stay. The owner is big, sure, but I''m bigger. It would be a decent workout, maybe even fun to test my skills without weapons.


    But I don''t know the rules here. In the wilds with the company, combat had clear parameters. Here, in this sprawling city with its intricate social hierarchies and Academy politics? Fighting a civilian could land me in more trouble than I need.


    I make my decision and sprint after Wentworth, catching up to him in seconds. We turn down an alley, the owner''s curses fading behind us.


    "Fake coins?" I ask between breaths, not even winded. "Didn''t take you for a counterfeiter, Covington."


    Wentworth maintains his pace, surprisingly agile for someone who spends most of his time in laboratories. "Not counterfeit," he manages between breaths. "Experimental alloy. Looks identical to silver but costs a fraction to produce. I''ve been developing it for... academic purposes."


    "Academic purposes," I repeat flatly. "Right."


    We emerge onto a wider street, slowing to a brisk walk to avoid drawing attention. The Academy looms in the distance, its tall spires cutting into the evening sky.


    "My family''s finances are... complicated," Wentworth says after a moment, straightening his jacket. "My research requires funding that isn''t always available through official channels."


    I study him from the corner of my eye. There''s more to this polished academic than I initially thought. His desperation has a familiar edge to it—not the desperation of survival that I know, but desperation nonetheless.


    "Your ''academic purposes'' almost got us into a brawl," I point out.


    "Would that have been so terrible for you?" Wentworth asks, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice. "Given your skills, I calculated the probability of you prevailing against our aggrieved host at approximately ninety-seven percent."


    I raise an eyebrow. "You calculated?"


    "I observe. I analyze. I quantify," he says simply. "It''s what I do."


    We walk in silence for a moment, the rhythm of our footsteps syncing unconsciously.


    "Next time," I finally say, "use real money. Or warn me about your ''experimental alloys'' before I get dragged into your schemes."


    Wentworth glances at me, surprise flickering across his features. "Next time? You anticipate further social engagements?"


    I hadn''t realised the implication of my words until he pointed it out. Do I expect there to be a next time? Am I actually forming connections here?


    "Figure of speech," I mutter, increasing my pace slightly.


    But as we approach the Academy grounds, I can''t help but wonder what''s happening to me. First Anja, then Cain, and now even Wentworth seems to be worming his way into my carefully constructed isolation. It''s dangerous. Distracting.


    And yet, I don''t hate it as much as I should.


    <hr>


    I reach my dorm to find the door already ajar, voices spilling out into the hallway. Anja''s animated tone rises above Cain''s rapid-fire responses—they''re clearly deep in debate about something.


    "I''m telling you, the magical propulsion systems they''re testing could revolutionize air travel!" Anja''s voice carries that particular excitement she only gets when discussing engines or vehicles.


    "Boring! We can see flying things any day," Cain counters. "But sneaking into The Rusty Spigot? That''s prime entertainment value, baby!"


    I push the door open to find them sprawled across my room. Anja''s taken over my desk, legs propped up on its edge, while Cain hangs half-upside down from his bed, gesturing wildly.


    They both freeze when I enter, then simultaneously launch into an explanation.


    "Mark! Perfect timing—" Anja starts.


    "Yo, we got plans brewing—" Cain overlaps.


    I settle onto my bed Haphazardly. "What schemes are you two cooking up now?"


    Anja straightens, all business. "Tomorrow''s options. Option one: We check out the new magical blimp project at the eastern shipyard. They''re integrating thaumaturgical lift engines with traditional steam propulsion. Revolutionary stuff."


    "Snooze fest," Cain interjects, flipping himself upright with surprising agility. "Option two is where it''s at. The Rusty Spigot—a backstreet tavern with the best underground fighting ring in Egozia. No magic allowed, just pure brawling."


    "It''s age-restricted," Anja adds with an eye roll. "Twenty-plus only."


    "Which means we need your scary face to get us in," Cain says, pointing at me. "Anja can pass for twenty easily, but they''ll never believe I''m anything but a baby-faced genius."


    "For once, he''s not wrong," Anja concedes. "You look like you''ve lived three lifetimes, Mark. No offense."


    I should be irritated by their presumption that I''ll go along with whatever madness they''ve concocted. A few weeks ago, I would have shut this down immediately. My mission was clear: find a way out of this Academy, and continue hunting for the tribe killer. No distractions.


    But something''s shifted. These outings—as chaotic and pointless as they seem—have become... not unpleasant.


    "I don''t mind," I say finally, surprising even myself. "Either option sounds fine."


    They both stare at me like I''ve grown a second head.


    "You don''t mind?" Anja repeats slowly.


    "Did you just say both options sound fine?" Cain clutches his chest dramatically. "Who are you and what have you done with grumpy Mark?"


    I shrug, uncomfortable with their scrutiny. "It''s been... fun. The racing. Even the café disaster."


    A thought surfaces—unexpected and unwelcome. Wentworth might enjoy this too. Despite his formal exterior, there''s clearly more to him than the scholarly facade. The way he ran from that café owner, the counterfeit coins... he''s got depths I hadn''t anticipated.


    "What about inviting Wentworth?" The words leave my mouth before I can reconsider.


    The room goes silent. Cain''s jaw actually drops.


    "Wentworth?" Anja says the name like it''s a foreign concept. "Covington? The walking thesaurus who follows you around asking about your tattoo?"


    "He''s not that bad," I find myself saying. "He''s... interesting."


    Cain recovers first, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Well, well, well. Mark made another friend! This is historic. Someone document this moment."


    "I didn''t say friend," I correct him sharply. "Just... he might add something to the group."


    Anja''s expression is harder to read. She studies me for a moment, then shrugs. "It''s your call. But fair warning—Wentworth and I have history."


    "History?" I raise an eyebrow.


    "Academic rivalry," she explains. "He criticized my engine design earlier this week. Called it ''quaint but fundamentally flawed.'' I may have threatened to demonstrate its power by running him over with it."


    Cain cackles. "Classic Anja response."


    I consider this new information. Anja and Wentworth at odds could make things complicated. But maybe that tension would be... interesting in its own way.


    "We''ll figure it out," I say finally. "For now, let''s decide: blimps or brawling?"


    I glance between Anja and Cain, waiting for their decision. Part of me still can''t believe I''m actually invested in what we''ll be doing tomorrow.


    "Let''s settle this properly," Cain announces, digging into his pocket. He produces a silver coin—a real one, unlike Wentworth''s counterfeits—and balances it on his thumb. "Heads is brawling, tails is boring blimps."


    "Excuse me? Boring?" Anja crosses her arms. "Those engines are engineering marvels."


    "Flip the damn coin," I say, more amused than annoyed.


    Cain flicks his thumb, sending the coin spinning upward. But instead of catching it, he makes a flourishing gesture with both hands. The coin vanishes mid-air.


    "Oh! Would you look at that?" He turns his empty palms outward. "Seems the universe doesn''t want to decide."


    Anja narrows her eyes. "Where''s the coin, Cain?"


    "What coin?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence. "I don''t recall any coin."


    "You literally just flipped it."


    "Did I, though? Memory''s a funny thing..."


    I lean back against the wall, watching their exchange. A week ago, this pointless bickering would have driven me to leave the room. Now, I find myself fighting back something dangerously close to a smile.


    "Fine," Anja says, thrusting her fist forward. "Rock, paper, scissors. Best of three."


    "Now you''re speaking my language!" Cain bounces on his bed excitedly, matching her stance.


    They pump their fists in unison. "Rock, paper, scissors!"


    Anja throws rock. Cain''s hand is flat—paper.


    "One-nil to the master," Cain crows.


    "Lucky guess," Anja mutters.


    They reset. "Rock, paper, scissors!"


    This time, Anja changes tactics with scissors. Somehow, Cain''s hand has formed rock.


    "That''s impossible," Anja protests. "You couldn''t have known I''d switch to scissors."


    I lean forward slightly, my mercenary instincts kicking in. Something about Cain''s movements seems off. There''s a slight delay, a barely perceptible adjustment happening just after Anja shows her hand.


    "What can I say? I''m just naturally gifted at reading people," Cain boasts, but I catch the glint in his eye—the same look he had when pulling pranks on other students.


    "One more," Anja insists, determination hardening her features. "Rock, paper, scissors!"


    Anja throws paper. Cain''s hand forms scissors, snipping at her flat palm.


    "And that''s game!" he shouts, leaping to his feet and performing an elaborate victory dance. "The Rusty Spigot it is! Underground fighting, here we come!"


    Anja looks genuinely confused. "How did you—"


    "He cheated," I say flatly.


    Cain freezes mid-dance. "Cheated? Me? I would never!"


    I point at his sleeve. "You''re doing some kind of sleight of hand. Changing your throw after seeing hers."


    For a split second, Cain''s face falls before he recovers with a theatrical gasp. "These accusations! The slander! I am but a humble competitor blessed with extraordinary luck and skill!"


    "Show me your sleeve," Anja demands, reaching for his arm.


    Cain dances backwards, but not quickly enough. Anja grabs his wrist and pushes up his sleeve to reveal a small mechanical contraption strapped to his forearm—three tiny levers positioned for easy access with his fingers.


    "You little cheat!" Anja exclaims, half outraged, half impressed. "What is this thing?"


    Cain sighs dramatically, the jig is up. "My latest invention. I call it the ''Victory Assurer.'' Each lever triggers a different position. I just had to press the right one after seeing your throw."


    Instead of being angry, Anja inspects the device with growing interest. "The mechanism is actually quite clever. The spring tension allows for rapid deployment without visible movement. Did you design this yourself?"


    "Of course! Took me three days to get the timing right."


    I shake my head, watching them geek out over what is essentially a cheating device. "So we''re going to the fighting ring, then? Since Cain ''won''?"


    "He cheated," Anja points out.


    "Yes, but I cheated brilliantly," Cain counters. "That should count for something."


    The ring it is.