I wake before dawn, the snake tattoo once again dormant on my skin. Running my fingers over it, I feel a connection I never noticed before—a subtle pulse beneath the surface, like a second heartbeat.


    The four of us move through the Academy''s shadowy corridors just as the first hint of sunrise touches the windows. No one speaks. Even Cain, normally impossible to silence, keeps his thoughts to himself. The weight of what we might discover hangs heavy between us.


    "You''re sure you can find this place again?" Wentworth asks as we slip through a side gate.


    "Yes," I answer, my voice sharper than intended. The memory of the route burns clear in my mind, as if the snake has somehow enhanced my recall.


    The Night Market looks different in the early morning light—less mysterious, more worn. Most stalls remain shuttered, but a few early merchants eye us suspiciously as we pass.


    "There," I point to the narrow alley where Stitch & Thread sits tucked away. The faded sign creaks slightly in the morning breeze.


    "Doesn''t look like much," Anja mutters, her hand resting instinctively on the small wrench she always carries.


    "Neither do you before your morning coffee," Cain quips, earning a scowl.


    I push the door open, setting off a small bell. The shop seems emptier than before, the racks of clothing pushed against the walls to create an open space in the centre. The old tailor sits cross-legged on a cushion, as if he''s been waiting for us.


    "I wondered when you''d return," he says, not bothering to stand. His eyes move past me to my companions. "And you''ve brought friends."


    "They know," I say simply.


    The tailor nods slowly. "Of course they do. The awakening is rarely subtle."


    "Awakening?" Wentworth steps forward, his academic curiosity overcoming his caution. "You mean the manifestation of his tattoo?"


    The old man''s eyes narrow. "You speak like a scholar, boy. Knowledge without understanding is dangerous."


    "I need answers," I cut in, moving closer to him. "You called me one of the Scaled Ones. What does that mean? Are there others like me?"


    Something flickers across the tailor''s face—pain, perhaps, or regret. "Sit," he commands, gesturing to cushions arranged in a semicircle before him. "All of you."


    We obey, forming an awkward circle on the floor. The shop feels different now—charged with an energy I can''t quite name.


    "The Scaled Ones were keepers of the old ways," the tailor begins, his voice taking on a rhythmic quality. "Before the Seven Territories, before the Great Academies, we understood the truth—that power comes not from controlling magic, but from becoming one with it."


    "We?" Anja interrupts. "You''re one of them?"


    The old man smiles sadly. "Sort of. I had someone close to me as a part of them. Now, I may be the last."


    The words hit me like a physical blow. "The last? But my tribe—"


    "Your tribe was one of the final holdouts," he explains. "Maintaining traditions when others abandoned them. But even they adapted, hiding in plain sight."


    "What happened to the others?" Wentworth asks.


    "Some died in the purges. Others scattered to the winds." The tailor''s gaze grows distant. "The last group I knew of fled to the Territory of Flak about five years ago. Into Wrath itself."


    "Flak?" Cain whispers. "Nobody survives in Flak unless they''re already half-mad."


    "Or desperate," the tailor corrects. "I''ve heard nothing from them since."


    My hope crumbles as quickly as it formed. "Then there''s no one left."


    "There is you," the tailor says, reaching out to touch my arm where the snake tattoo lies dormant. "And what happened to you last night was a gift, not a curse."


    "The snake spoke to me," I admit reluctantly. "It felt like... like it was always part of me."


    The tailor nods, a hint of excitement breaking through his solemn demeanour. "The First Communion. Few achieve it so quickly." He studies my face. "Your father taught you well before he was taken from you."


    "My father never showed me anything like this," I protest.


    "He wouldn''t have had the chance," the tailor says softly. "The First Communion typically occurs after years of preparation. You''ve somehow compressed the process."


    "What does it mean?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.


    The tailor''s eyes gleam. "It means you may be the last hope for our ways. The last true Scaled One."


    I stare at the tailor, his words echoing in my head. The last true Scaled One. The weight of it crushes down on my shoulders, heavier than any burden I''ve carried before.


    "You must have more information," I press, leaning forward. "Anything about what these powers mean, how to control them—"


    The tailor shakes his head slowly. "I was never a keeper of knowledge, only a preserver of symbols. The patterns I sew..." He gestures to the snake emblem on my shirt. "They maintain connections, nothing more."


    His eyes drift to Wentworth, who shifts uncomfortably beside me. "But this one—" The tailor points a gnarled finger. "This one has been asking questions in places where answers might be found."


    All eyes turn to Wentworth, whose face pales slightly.


    "What''s he talking about?" Anja asks, her voice sharp with suspicion.


    Wentworth clears his throat. "I may have... come across certain texts in my research. Historical accounts, mostly theoretical."


    "Theoretical?" The tailor scoffs. "What''s your last name?"


    "Covington", Wentworth says hesitantly.


    "The Covington family archives are known to hold the most comprehensive collection of forbidden knowledge in Egozia."


    "You know my family?" Wentworth looks genuinely startled.


    "I know all the old families," the tailor says dismissively. "Especially those who built their fortunes on the ashes of others."


    The room falls silent. Wentworth''s face is a mask of conflicting emotions.


    "What do you know?" I ask him directly, my patience worn thin. "If you have information about what I am—"


    "It''s complicated," Wentworth interrupts, running a hand through his hair. "The texts I''ve seen... they''re family heirlooms. Protected. If I were to share their contents—"


    "Your precious family might get upset?" Anja cuts in. "While Mark''s entire people have been wiped out?"


    Wentworth flinches. "It''s not that simple. These archives... they''re sealed with blood magic. If I break the seals, it would alert my mother immediately."


    "So what?" Cain interjects. "Just tell her you''re doing research for a class or something."


    "You don''t understand," Wentworth says, his voice dropping. "My family doesn''t just collect knowledge—they hoard it. Use it. If they discover I''m helping Mark understand Scaled One magic..." He trails off, looking genuinely frightened.


    I stand abruptly, unable to contain the frustration boiling inside me. "How is it that everyone seems to know more about my people than I do? My father died before he could teach me anything, and now I find out that strangers have been collecting information about us like... like specimens in a jar!"


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    My heart starts beating harder. I''m getting worked up.


    The tailor watches me with sad eyes. "The victors always write the history."


    "I didn''t ask for any of this," I continue, pacing the small shop. "A week ago, my life made sense. Kill the mage who destroyed my tribe. Simple. Now?" I gesture wildly. "Now I''m apparently the last of some ancient magical bloodline that everyone else seems to understand better than I do!"


    "Look, Mark—" Cain starts, attempting to lighten the mood. "At least you''re special, right? Better than being ordinary like the rest of us boring—"


    "Not now, Cain," Anja snaps, and he shrinks back.


    I turn to face Wentworth, who won''t meet my eyes. "You need to decide where you stand. If you know something that could help me understand what I am, what these powers mean..."


    "I''ll... I need time to think," Wentworth says quietly. "The consequences..."


    The tailor makes a disgusted sound. "Always the same with your kind. Weighing consequences while others suffer."


    Anja stands, placing a hand on my arm. "We should go. Standing around arguing won''t solve anything."


    I look back at the tailor. "Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all?"


    He shakes his head. "Only this: the snake is just the beginning. The path of the Scaled Ones involves many beasts, many powers. Be careful which ones you choose to embrace."


    As we leave the shop, I feel the snake tattoo pulse once against my skin, as if in agreement.


    <hr>


    I stride away from the tailor''s shop, my mind racing faster than my feet. The others follow a few paces behind, their hushed conversation barely registering. The snake tattoo continuously pulses against my skin, a constant reminder of everything I don''t understand about myself.


    "Mark, wait up," Anja calls, jogging to catch me. "We should talk about what we just learned."


    I slow my pace but don''t stop. "What''s there to talk about? I''m apparently the last of some magical tribe that everyone knows more about than I do."


    Wentworth catches up, his face still pale. "I should go. There are... matters I need to attend to."


    "You mean you need to decide whether to help or not," I say, my voice cold.


    He flinches. "It''s not that simple. The archives... my family..." His words trail off as he backs away. "I''ll be in my room if you need me. I just need to think."


    Without waiting for a response, he turns and hurries down a side street toward the Academy, shoulders hunched as if carrying an invisible weight.


    "Well, that''s not suspicious at all," Cain mutters, watching him go.


    Anja shoots him a look. "Give him some space. Not everyone can process information as quickly as you pretend to."


    "I''m not pretending anything," Cain protests, but his usual energy seems dampened. He glances at me, then away. "Look, Mark, this is heavy stuff. If you want to talk or... I don''t know, punch something, I''m here."


    The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I''ve never heard Cain sound so serious before.


    "Thanks," I manage, not knowing what else to say.


    We reach a small square where the morning market is beginning to set up. Vendors call to one another, their voices echoing off the cobblestones.


    "I should probably go too," Cain says after an awkward silence. "Got that, uh, thing for Professor Morton''s class to finish." He shuffles his feet. "Unless you want me to stay?"


    I shake my head. "Go ahead."


    He nods, relief and guilt battling on his face. "Right. I''ll see you back at the room then." He gives Anja a meaningful look before heading off, leaving just the two of us.


    Anja stands beside me, arms crossed. "So."


    "So," I echo.


    "You''re not going to shut us out, are you? After everything we''ve been through?"


    I turn to look at her. "What do you mean?"


    "I mean, I can see you building those walls again. The ones you had when we first met." She steps closer. "I know that look. You''re planning to handle this alone, aren''t you?"


    The accuracy of her observation irritates me. "And if I am?"


    "Then you''re an idiot," she says bluntly. "You don''t have to carry everything by yourself, Mark. I''ve been here since day one, and I''m not going anywhere."


    Something in her words strikes a nerve. "Are you sure about that? Because it seems like everyone knows more about my life than I do. Even Wentworth, with his family secrets. How do I know you''re not hiding something too?"


    Hurt flashes across her face. "That''s not fair."


    "Isn''t it? A week ago, I thought I knew exactly who I was and what I needed to do. Now?" I gesture to my arm where the snake tattoo lies hidden. "Now I don''t know anything anymore."


    Anja''s expression softens. "Then let me help you figure it out."


    I step back. "I need to clear my head. Alone."


    "Mark—"


    "Please, Anja. Just... give me some time."


    She studies my face, then nods reluctantly. "Fine. But don''t disappear on us. Promise me that much."


    "I promise," I say, already turning away.


    I pick a direction I''ve never explored before and start walking, putting distance between myself and everything familiar. The morning sun climbs higher as I navigate unfamiliar streets, each turn taking me deeper into a part of the city I''ve never seen.


    The snake tattoo pulses occasionally as if sensing my turmoil. The tailor''s words echo in my mind: "The snake is just the beginning." What does that mean for me? For my future?


    And can I really trust anyone to stand beside me when they discover what I might become?


    <hr>


    I wander through unfamiliar streets until I find myself at a small, forgotten courtyard. Crumbling stone benches surround a dry fountain, weeds pushing through the cracks. Perfect. No students, no professors, no one to watch me unravel.


    I sink onto a bench, then slide to the ground, my back against cold stone. The solitude feels right—familiar in a way the Academy never has. I close my eyes and let my head fall back.


    What am I doing here? Everything was so clear before. Find Camilla. Kill her. Avenge my tribe. Simple. Clean. Direct. Purpose.


    Now? I''m drowning in complications. Wentworth with his family secrets. Anja with her unwavering loyalty that I don''t deserve. Cain trying to lighten every situation. The tailor and his cryptic warnings. The snake that speaks to me.


    Too many people. Too many angles. Too many ways this could all go wrong.


    Maybe I should go back to what I know. The mercenary life. No attachments, no complications. Just contracts and combat and the endless search for Camilla. At least there, I understood the rules.


    Maya would know what to do. Maya always had a plan.


    I bolt upright, shame washing over me like cold water. Maya. How could I have forgotten? While I''ve been living in comfort at the Academy, playing at being a student, what''s happened to her? To all of them?


    For all I know, they''re dead. Buried in unmarked graves somewhere, or worse. And I''ve been here, eating academy food, sleeping in a proper bed, making friends.


    "Some loyal soldier I turned out to be," I mutter to the empty courtyard.


    I think of Captain Maya''s face, the last time I saw her, ordering me to hold the line. Did she survive that battle? Is she looking for me? Or did she write me off as captured or killed?


    The weight of my selfishness crushes down on me. I''ve been so focused on my own problems, my own mysterious heritage, that I forgot the only person who ever truly had my back when it mattered.


    "I should find her," I say aloud. "Get out of this place and find Maya."


    The snake tattoo pulses against my skin as if responding to my thoughts.


    I look down at my arm, watching the inked scales ripple slightly beneath my sleeve. "What do you think?" I ask, feeling ridiculous even as the words leave my mouth. "Am I losing my mind here?"


    The tattoo remains still for a moment, then pulses once, strongly.


    "Great," I mutter. "Now I''m talking to my own skin and expecting answers."


    But isn''t that exactly what happened in my room? The snake spoke to me, became real. Maybe it can hear me now.


    "If you''re listening," I say quietly, "I could use some direction here. Everything was simple before. Now..." I trail off, shaking my head at my own absurdity.


    The tattoo remains dormant, offering no wisdom.


    "Of course," I sigh. "Only works when it wants to."


    I lean back against the bench, staring up at the sliver of sky visible between the buildings. Maya is the only person I can truly trust. She never lied to me, never had hidden agendas. Just straightforward orders and expectations. Find her, and maybe I can get back to what matters.


    But even as I think it, doubt creeps in. The snake, the tailor''s words, the strange power flowing through me—none of that fits into my old life. Whatever I am, whatever I''m becoming, it can''t be contained by mercenary contracts anymore.


    I close my eyes, exhaustion settling into my bones. "What am I supposed to do now?"


    I sit in the forgotten courtyard, letting my mind empty itself of worries. A flock of starlings wheels overhead, their wings creating a soft rustling that cuts through the silence. Their synchronised movements form shifting patterns against the pale blue sky, like some natural magic that requires no human interference.


    In the distance, I hear the telltale crackle of spellwork—students practising, no doubt. The sound has become familiar during my time at the Academy, though it still sets my teeth on edge. The magic pulses in waves, each burst followed by excited voices too far away to make out clearly.


    The low, steady hum of airship engines draws my attention upward again. A cargo blimp drifts lazily across the sky, its brass hull catching the sunlight. Steam billows from vents along its sides, creating ephemeral clouds that dissipate into nothing. The rhythmic chug-chug-chug of its pistons carries clearly in the still morning air.


    For once, I let my mind go blank. No plans. No revenge. No mysterious heritage or talking tattoos. Just... nothing. The emptiness is a relief after the chaos of recent days.


    I focus on the courtyard around me. The stone beneath me is cool and smooth, worn down by years of use and then years of neglect. Moss creeps along the edges of the flagstones, reclaiming territory inch by persistent inch. The dry fountain at the centre stands as a monument to forgotten grandeur, its basin cracked and filled with fallen leaves. A stone nymph, her features eroded by time and weather, pours nothing from her eternally empty jug.


    Weeds push through cracks in the paving, defiant and alive. Yellow dandelions and purple thistles add splashes of colour to the grey stone. In one corner, a gnarled tree grows at an impossible angle, its roots having found purchase in what seems like solid stone.


    I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with air that tastes different from the Academy''s. Less sterile. More real. The scent of damp stone and earth mingles with something sweeter—wildflowers, perhaps. I catch hints of lavender and thyme from somewhere nearby, probably an abandoned garden that''s gone wild with neglect.


    The breeze shifts, bringing the faint aroma of baking bread from some distant bakery. My stomach rumbles in response, reminding me I haven''t eaten since yesterday.


    This place feels untouched by the Academy''s influence. No wards, no magical residue, no constant hum of power that permeates every corner of the school grounds. Just an ordinary, forgotten space where nature slowly reclaims what humans abandoned.


    For the first time in days, my tattoo is completely still. No pulsing, no movement, no whispered thoughts. Just an inert marking on my skin. The silence from it is as comforting as it is strange.


    I close my eyes again, listening to the birds, the distant magic, the airships passing overhead. For this moment, at least, I am not the last Scaled One, not a weapon, not a student, not a mercenary. I''m just... here. Existing.


    And somehow, that''s enough.