"I think I need to leave," I say, the words slipping out before I''ve fully processed them.


    The thought has been growing like a weed in my mind since dawn. Every revelation about the Scaled Ones, every new complication with my tattoo, every question from Wentworth—they all push me closer to the edge. The Academy feels like quicksand now, pulling me deeper into a life I never asked for.


    I stand, brushing dust from my trousers. The abandoned courtyard has offered temporary peace, but peace isn''t what I need. I need clarity. Direction. Purpose.


    Leaving means taking control again. No more professors studying me like some rare specimen. No more Academy rules restricting my movements. No more magical wards interfering with my abilities. Just me, my knife, and the open road leading to Maya—if she''s still alive.


    But even as I form the plan in my mind, reality crashes down. I''m not free to go. The High Marshal made that abundantly clear when he forced me into this place. What were his exact words? Something about being branded a spy if I tried to leave. Execution, probably. Or imprisonment at the very least.


    I pace the courtyard, footsteps echoing against the ancient stones. The Academy has become both a prison and a sanctuary. I''ve made... connections here. Anja with her endless chatter and mechanical genius. Cain with his awkward loyalty. Even Wentworth, despite his secrets and his family''s possible connection to the purge of my people.


    My people. The thought still feels foreign, and uncomfortable.


    "Damn it all," I mutter, kicking a loose stone into the dry fountain.


    If I stay, I risk losing myself in whatever this new identity is—the last Scaled One, heir to powers I don''t understand. If I leave, I become a fugitive from Egozia, hunted by the same military that captured me once before.


    Neither option gives me what I truly want: control.


    I look down at my arm where the snake tattoo lies dormant beneath my sleeve. Even my own body isn''t fully under my command anymore. The snake appears when it wishes, speaks when it chooses, and empowers me according to its own mysterious rules.


    "What would you do?" I ask it, feeling foolish for expecting an answer.


    Predictably, the tattoo remains silent.


    I need a plan. Not just impulse or reaction, but something calculated. The Academy has exits, guard rotations, blind spots in their security. I''ve been mapping them since my first day here. Old mercenary habits die hard.


    The eastern wall, near the old observatory. Guards pass every thirty minutes, and the wall itself is only three metres high—child''s play for someone with my training. Beyond lies the industrial district, then the docks. I could stow away on an airship bound for... where?


    Flak Territory, perhaps? The tailor mentioned other Scaled Ones might have fled there. But seeking them out would mean embracing the very identity I''m trying to escape.


    I could search for Maya and what remains of our mercenary company. But what if they''re truly gone? What then?


    The vengeance that''s driven me for eleven years suddenly feels hollow. Kill the mage who destroyed my tribe—then what? Especially now that I know more of my kind might still exist.


    I sit back down on the bench, head in my hands. Leaving should be simple. I''ve never been one to form attachments. Move in, complete the contract, move out—that''s been my life since Maya took me in. So why does the thought of disappearing from the Academy twist something in my chest?


    Is it the mystery of my heritage? The possibility of answers? Or is it the people—the first real connections I''ve allowed myself since watching my father burn?


    I don''t know. And that uncertainty is the most frustrating part of all.


    Control. That''s what I need. But right now, I control nothing—not my past, not my future, not even the magic flowing through my veins.


    <hr>


    I stand up finally, feeling a familiar coldness wash over me. It''s like a switch flicking in my mind—the mercenary training taking over, pushing away all the confusion, all the questions about heritage and identity.


    Fuck the Scaled Ones. Fuck the Academy. And most of all, fuck mages.


    At least hatred gives clarity. At least vengeance provides direction. The rest—friendships, belonging, understanding my powers—it''s all just noise distracting me from what matters.


    Finding Camilla. Making her pay for what she did to my tribe.


    I leave the courtyard without a backward glance, my footsteps quick and purposeful. The morning sun has barely crested the Academy''s eastern towers, casting long shadows across the grounds. Perfect. Fewer people to notice me.


    I stick to the edges of buildings, avoiding the main paths where early-rising students might spot me. My mind calculates routes, contingencies, escape vectors—the familiar rhythm of planning an extraction.


    This is me. This is Mark. Not some mystical last survivor, not some Academy pet project. Just a mercenary with a job to finish.


    The eastern wall is my first target. I time the guard rotation perfectly, scaling the stonework in seconds once they''ve passed. The drop on the other side lands me in a narrow alley between the Academy grounds and the city proper.


    I need to blend in. My height and build make me conspicuous, especially in these clothes. A clothing shop sits at the end of the alley, not yet open for business. The lock is simple—a basic tumbler mechanism that takes me less than ten seconds to pick. Fuck that. I''ll just snap it.


    Crack


    Inside, I grab a heavy overcoat with a high collar and a wide-brimmed hat. I leave coins on the counter—not because I care about theft, but because I don''t need city guards looking for a shoplifter.


    The industrial district stinks of coal smoke and machine oil. Workers trudge to morning shifts, heads down, shoulders hunched. I match their gait, becoming just another labourer heading to the docks.


    The airship port looms ahead, a forest of mooring masts and loading cranes. Massive vessels hang in the sky like pregnant clouds, their envelopes swollen with lift gas, gondolas dangling beneath. Smaller courier ships zip between them, nimble as dragonflies.


    I observe the security pattern from behind a stack of cargo crates. Two guards at the main entrance are checking papers. Dock workers moving freely with their guild badges. Crew members boarding with manifest documents.


    Sloppy. Predictable. Exploitable.


    A cargo ship is being loaded near the eastern edge of the port. Workers roll barrels up a ramp into its hold. The foreman checks items off a list, barely glancing at the contents or the men moving them.


    I time my approach carefully, falling in behind a group of dockworkers returning from a smoke break. When they split to resume their tasks, I grab an empty barrel from the stack and hoist it onto my shoulder, obscuring my face.


    The weight is nothing to me. I''ve carried wounded comrades through battlefields. A barrel is child''s play.


    I join the loading line, keeping my head down. The foreman barely looks up as I pass. Inside the cargo hold, I set the barrel down with the others, then slip deeper into the shadows between stacked crates.


    Now, to determine where this ship is headed. I need information.


    Two crewmen enter, checking tie-downs on the cargo.


    "Captain wants everything secured proper this time," one says. "Last run to Flak, we lost three crates when we hit that storm."


    Flak. Territory of Wrath.


    The decision makes itself. If other Scaled Ones fled there, I might find answers. If not, at least I''ll be far from the Academy and closer to finding Camilla. The territory''s reputation for violence and chaos would make it the perfect hiding place for a mage who massacred an entire tribe.


    I settle deeper into my hiding spot as the crewmen finish their work and exit. The cargo hold doors remain open, but I''m well-concealed between crates of machine parts.


    The familiar calm of a mission in progress settles over me. No more confusion. No more questions about what I am or who I should be.


    Just the plan. Just the target.


    This is me. This is Mark.


    <hr>


    Zip.


    The hair on my neck rises before I see the first spell. Blue light splashes against the crate beside me, freezing the wood solid.


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    "Subject shows increased aggression and unstable magical manifestation," a calm voice notes from above. "Recommendation: immediate containment."


    I roll, drawing my knife, but the second spell pins my shadow to the ground. A figure in Academy grey steps into view, but his robes are different—darker, marked with silver runes.


    "I''ve been watching you, Mark of the Scaled Ones. The fighting pits. The violent outbursts. The growing instability of your powers. Did you think the High Marshal would leave such a potential threat unobserved?"


    My muscles strain against the shadow binding. The snake tattoo burns, but the magic holding me is precise, professional. Nothing like the raw power of Camilla. This is calculated, trained, deadly.


    "The Academy could have helped you," he continues, raising his hand for another spell. "Now you''ll have to be dealt with."


    The blast never comes. A figure drops from above, landing between us. Weathered robes, battle-scarred hands, eyes that have seen too much war.


    The newcomer stands between me and the Academy mage, his weathered robes fluttering in the draft from the cargo hold doors. He doesn''t look at me, keeping his focus entirely on the threat.


    "This one''s not yours to take," the stranger says, voice low and steady.


    The mage tilts his head. "Academy business. Stand aside or be detained alongside him."


    "No."


    One word. That''s all the stranger offers before he moves.


    I''ve seen skilled fighters before—I trained with Maya''s mercenaries for years—but this man''s speed defies belief. He crosses the distance to the mage in a heartbeat, drawing a blade so quickly it seems to materialize in his hand.


    The mage reacts with practised precision, shadows coiling around his arms like serpents. The binding spell on my shadow weakens as his concentration shifts, and I struggle against it, feeling the tattoo burn hotter against my skin.


    The stranger''s blade slices through shadow magic like its smoke, dispersing the spell before it can fully form. The mage leaps backwards, landing atop a stack of crates.


    "Interesting," the mage says. "Anti-magic properties in your blade? Or perhaps—"


    The stranger doesn''t let him finish, launching himself upward with impossible strength. The mage barely dodges, rolling across the crates as the stranger''s blade embeds in the wood where he stood.


    Shadow tendrils erupt from the mage''s fingertips, wrapping around a nearby barrel and hurling it at the stranger. Instead of dodging, the man pivots and cuts the barrel in half mid-air, the contents—mechanical parts—clattering across the metal floor.


    The noise draws shouts from outside. We don''t have long before the entire airship crew investigates.


    "You''re making a mistake," the mage says, gathering darkness between his palms. "The boy is dangerous. Unstable."


    "So am I," the stranger replies, and there''s something in his voice—a cold certainty that sends chills down my spine.


    The binding on my shadow finally breaks. I roll to my feet, knife in hand, but the stranger gestures sharply without looking at me.


    "Stay back. This isn''t your fight."


    The mage launches his attack—not at the stranger, but at the gas lines running along the ceiling of the cargo hold. Smart. If they rupture, the lift gas could ignite, destroying the ship and everyone aboard.


    The stranger seems to anticipate this, throwing something from his belt that intercepts the shadow bolt mid-air. The collision creates a vacuum effect, sucking the magic into itself with a sound like air being pulled through a narrow tube.


    "Anti-magic grenades," the mage says, sounding impressed despite himself. "Military grade. You''re well-equipped for a random intervener."


    The stranger doesn''t respond, advancing steadily across the cargo hold. The mage retreats, sending quick bursts of shadow magic to slow his pursuer. Each time, the stranger either deflects with his blade or sidesteps with preternatural awareness.


    They''re evenly matched—the mage with his Academy training, the stranger with his mysterious skills and equipment. Neither gaining ground nor willing to escalate to ship-destroying levels of force.


    The fight moves between cargo stacks, a deadly dance of blade and shadow. The stranger fights with brutal efficiency, no wasted movement no flashy techniques. The mage is more theatrical but equally effective, using the environment to create advantages—darkening corners, and animating shadows from the crates.


    A shadow tendril catches the stranger''s ankle, tripping him momentarily. The mage presses his advantage, sending a bolt of concentrated darkness toward his opponent''s chest. The stranger rolls, the magic grazing his shoulder, leaving a smoking tear in his robe.


    First blood.


    The stranger doesn''t flinch, doesn''t slow. If anything, he moves faster, his blade becoming a blur of reflected light in the dim cargo hold. The mage is forced backwards, shadows swirling protectively around him as he struggles to maintain distance.


    "Who are you?" the mage demands, breathing heavily now.


    The stranger doesn''t answer, pressing forward relentlessly.


    The ship lurches suddenly—we''re casting off. The movement throws both combatants off balance. They recover simultaneously, weapons raised, eyes locked.


    Stalemate.


    The mage''s shadows curl around him like a cloak. The stranger''s blade gleams dully in the half-light. Neither moves, each waiting for the other to make a fatal mistake.


    The mage appears a little uneasy. His eyes quickly flick to me, then back to him.


    "This isn''t over," the mage says finally, shadows thickening around him. It appears he''s decided to retreat.


    "It never is," the stranger replies.


    The mage melts into the darkness between crates, his presence fading like smoke. The stranger remains poised for several heartbeats before finally lowering his weapon.


    He turns to me, face half-hidden in the shadow of his hood.


    "You''ve made powerful enemies, boy."


    I stare at the stranger, my mind struggling to process what I''ve just witnessed. I''ve seen skilled fighters before—Maya and her mercenaries were no amateurs—but this man moved like something else entirely. No wasted motions, no hesitation, no fear. Just pure, lethal efficiency.


    The shadow mage had been formidable, his Academy training evident in every calculated spell. Yet this weathered swordsman countered him at every turn, seemingly anticipating attacks before they happened.


    Despite my years of mercenary training, I couldn''t have matched either of them. How weak am I?


    The mage would have overwhelmed me with his shadow binding. And the swordsman... I''ve never seen blade work like that. My blade techniques suddenly feel crude and primitive by comparison. Even with my tattoo''s power, I doubt I could move with such precision.


    The man sheathes his blade—a motion so smooth it''s almost imperceptible—and turns to me fully. His face is lined with scars, eyes dark and unreadable.


    "We need to move," he says, voice low and steady. "That mage will return with reinforcements."


    "Who are you?" I demand, keeping my knife ready. Friend or not, I''m not following anyone blindly.


    He regards me for a moment, seemingly measuring my worth with that penetrating gaze.


    "Sihx," he offers finally. Just the one word, as if it should mean something.


    It doesn''t.


    "That''s it? Just Sihx?"


    "Names are earned, not given," he replies cryptically. "Right now, all you need to know is that I''m someone who doesn''t want to see you in Academy chains."


    The ship lurches again as it continues to rise. Through the cargo hold''s small porthole, I can see the Academy growing smaller below us.


    "We need to disembark," Sihx says, moving toward the cargo doors. "Before we''re too high."


    "Disembark? We''re already airborne."


    He doesn''t bother responding, instead pulling a coiled rope from beneath his robes.


    "This ship is heading to Flak," I argue. "That''s where I need to go." I need to find Camilla.


    "No." The finality in his voice is jarring. "The Academy has agents throughout the territories. Flak is the first place they''ll look for you now."


    "I don''t care. There might be others of my kind there—" The words accidentally slip out.


    "There aren''t." He secures the rope to a metal support beam. "Not anymore."


    The certainty in his voice stops me cold.


    "How would you know?" I curtly respond


    "Because I was there when they were hunted down." He throws the rope out the cargo door, the end disappearing into the mist below. "We need to reach the city walls. There''s a passage that will take us beyond Academy jurisdiction."


    The fuck?


    "Explain," I venomously answered


    "Not sure I want to"


    My blood boils. This stranger appears out of nowhere, fights off an Academy mage like he''s swatting flies, and casually mentions he witnessed the slaughter of my people?


    "You were there?" My voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "When they were hunted down?"


    Sihx doesn''t even look at me, just continues securing the rope. His dismissal feels like another insult.


    "Explain yourself," I demand, gripping my knife even tighter. "Now."


    "We don''t have time for this." He tests the rope with a sharp tug. "Every minute we delay—"


    "Make time." I step between him and the cargo door. "You don''t get to drop something like that and walk away."


    His eyes meet mine, cold and assessing. I can see the calculation there—how quickly he could disarm me, how many moves it would take to put me down.


    I''ve made the same calculation. The answer isn''t good.


    This man just fought off an Academy shadow mage without breaking a sweat. He moved faster than anyone I''ve ever seen. His blade work made Maya''s best fighters look like children with sticks.


    If I push this, I''ll lose. Badly.


    But I can''t back down. Not about this.


    "Were you one of them?" I ask, knife still raised. "One of the hunters?"


    Something flickers across his face—not guilt, not exactly, but recognition.


    "No," he says finally. "I was trying to stop it."


    "Trying?" I spit the word. "Clearly, you failed."


    His expression doesn''t change, but I sense a dangerous shift in his posture. I''ve struck a nerve.


    "Yes," he says quietly. "I failed."


    The ship lurches again, gaining altitude. Through the porthole, I can see we''re already above the city''s outer districts.


    "We need to go," Sihx says, gesturing to the rope. "Now."


    I don''t move.


    "I need answers."


    "You need to survive." He steps closer, and it takes everything I have not to retreat. "The Academy knows what you are now. They''ll never stop hunting you."


    "And I should trust you instead? A stranger who just happens to know about my people? Who was there when they died?"


    He sighs, a sound of genuine frustration.


    "If you come with me," he says finally, "I might explain."


    "Might?"


    "Will," he amends. "But not here. Not now."


    I hesitate, weighing my options again. The airship continues to rise, the ground growing more distant with each passing second.


    I study the stranger—Sihx—with a mercenary''s practised eye. His stance, his scars, the way he handles his weapon—all speak of decades of combat experience. The anti-magic grenades and his ability to counter the shadow mage''s attacks suggest specialised training against magical opponents.


    If I stay on this airship, I might reach Flak and possibly find traces of my people— even if Sihx said they were gone. I have to go myself. But the Academy clearly has resources I hadn''t anticipated. That shadow mage wasn''t just any instructor—his skills were too refined, too lethal. And he knew exactly where to find me.


    If I go with Sihx, I''m following a complete stranger on nothing but his word. Yet he intervened when he didn''t have to, risking his life against a powerful opponent. And there was something in the way he fought—a familiarity with magic users that suggests he knows their weaknesses, and I need to learn that.


    The rope dangles from the cargo door. The city sprawls below, growing more distant by the second. My window of opportunity is closing.


    But he did save me from the shadow mage.


    Neither choice feels good.


    "Time''s up," Sihx says, moving toward the rope. "Choose."


    "Why help me?" I ask, moving closer to the door. "What do you gain?"


    Sihx tests the rope for the last time, his weathered hands working with practised efficiency.


    "Stop. Questions later. Escape now." He gestures to the rope. "Unless you prefer Academy interrogation cells?"


    The memory of my previous captivities flashes through my mind—the High Marshal''s smug face, the magical probing, the helplessness.


    "Fine," I concede, gripping the rope. "But I want answers once we''re clear."


    "You''ll get what you need," he promises, though something in his tone suggests his definition of "need" might differ from mine.


    I look down at the city below, the morning mist parting to reveal the sprawling streets and buildings. We''re already higher than I''d like for a rope descent.


    "The mage will sense our departure," Sihx warns. "We''ll have minutes at most before pursuit begins."


    How is the mage tracking me? Some tracking magic, probably.


    I take a deep breath, tightening my grip on the rope. Whatever answers await me—about the Scaled Ones, about my tattoo, about this mysterious swordsman—they''ll have to wait until we''re safely beyond the Academy''s reach.


    Again. More people know more than I do. How long will this cycle last?