《Living Ink》


 Chapter 1 - Fuck Mages

    I trace the burn scars in the makeshift camps grimy outside mirror. They''ve faded slightly, albeit after so long. But the memory of that fire still burns fresh, tormenting my mind and dancing freely whenever I rest.


    The mirror''s cracked surface fractures my reflection¡ªa face I barely recognize anymore. My white hair, cut short against my scalp for combat ease, stands stark against skin tanned and weathered by years on the road. The red eyes I inherited from my mother stare back, hollow with purpose.


    My snake tattoo ripples beneath the scars¡ªno longer the weak marking of a child, but a true weapon now. Still, it wasn''t enough then. It isn''t enough now.


    I pull my shirt back on my behemoth frame, covering both scars and tattoo. Clenching my jaw, somewhere out there, Camilla still roams around and wields that hideous magic that destroyed my people. One day, she''ll learn that she should have made sure every last one of us was dead.


    Fuck mages


    One small knife in my hands, against a world of mages. But it''s a start.


    <hr>


    The camp bustles with activity, but I keep to myself, sharpening my Jeolara issued blade while watching the others. Captain Maya stands tall among them, her scarred face, and short black hair that could easily mistake her for a man, was creasing with laughter at some crude joke. Eleven years under her command, and she''s taught us well¡ªtaught me well. If I didn''t get this burden, I may have stayed with these guys forever.


    "Come on, pretty boy, show us what you''ve got!" A mercenary throws a punch at another, who dances away with practiced ease.


    "Your footwork''s shit as always," Maya barks, but there''s a soothing warmth in her voice. These mercenaries might not seem like much, but they became something close to family for me. Been here longer than my tribe, though I never let myself get too attached. I have a goal.


    The familiar weight of my snake tattoo shifts and coils beneath my sleeve, it''s getting hungrier and hungrier as i''ve noticed. I''ve learned to control its manifestations better now being able to equip it on the fly with enough focus. My skills with the blade is nothing to scoff at either, all thanks to Maya''s relentless and brutal training. But I needed it, I was as green as they come.


    "Markus." Maya''s gravelly voice cuts through my brooding. She insists on calling me that¡ªlike I''m still the scrawny kid she found all those years ago. "You''re always quiet at these times. Time for a round, ay? That''ll liven you up."


    I rise from my spot, knowing better than to refuse. The other mercs form a loose circle, their usual rowdy banter dying down to excited murmurs. Maya hasn''t lost a match in fifteen years of leading the company. Her scarred face breaks into that familiar predatory grin as she circles me, each step measured and deliberate.


    "Show me what you''ve learned, boy."


    I stand opposite Maya, my six-foot-eight frame towering over her compact, battle-hardened body. Two predators sizing each other up.


    She explodes forward¡ªshe always does¡ªa blur of steel and leather. I twist aside, my right hand bringing my greatsword up toward her shoulder while my tattoo pulses. The familiar cold sensation spreads through my left arm as my tattoo materialises a black sleek knife. But Maya reads the move before I complete it. Her bracer parries my large blade with a resounding clang¡ª a skillful move¡ªand suddenly the world spins as her leg sweeps mine.


    Thump.


    I roll through the fall, dirt spraying as her sword bites into the ground where I lay a heartbeat ago. The snake-knife allows me to spring back faster than she expects, and for once I see a flicker of surprise in her eyes.


    "Better," she grunts, adjusting her stance. "But still too predictable."


    She presses forward with a combination of strikes¡ªhigh, low, thrust. Each attack flows into the next like water. I parry two, dodge the third, but her elbow catches my ribs. Pain blossoms, but I use the momentum to create distance.


    My snake tattoo writhes beneath my skin, hungry for more. I feint with my left, and when she moves to counter, I dismiss the snake-knife and put both hands on the huge sword¡ª thrusting forward at her head. The sudden switch forces her to abort her counter-attack. This is my chance.


    She laughs¡ªactually laughs¡ªas she ducks under it. "Now that''s new!"


    Her counter is brutal. A knee to my stomach doubles me over, followed by a shoulder charge that sends me sprawling. But I''m ready this time. Materialising the knife again. I plant the greatsword into the dirt, using it as an anchor to control my fall. My boots connect with her advancing form, and for the first time ever, I manage to stagger the captain.


    The gathered mercs roar their approval. Cheers and whistles are abundant. Maya''s eyes narrow, all pretense of training gone. She comes at me with her full speed now, her sword a silver arc in the morning light, beautiful. I meet her strike-for-strike, my blades becoming a defensive web. But she''s still Maya. A subtle shift in her weight is all the warning I get before her pommel cracks against my jaw.


    The world goes fuzzy. My legs give out, and I taste blood. When my vision clears, I''m face-down in the dirt, her boot pressed firmly between my shoulder blades, I could get up but choose to lie there for a beat.


    "Much better, luckily your jaws strong" she says, helping me up. "That leg trap was inspiring. But you still telegraph your snake-knife switches."


    Progress.


    <hr>


    Dawn breaks cold and grey over the battlefield. One battle of many in this world.


    The Kingdom of Jeolara''s forces stretch out before us¡ªsteam tanks, rifle squadrons, our mercenary company integrated among their ranks. Across the field, The Grand Duchy of Egozia''s banners snap and flow in the wind.


    Then I see them. Mages. Dozens of them, their robes catching the morning light creeping over the towering walls. My tattoo writhes beneath my skin, responding to their presence. My grip tightens around my weapon. Blood heating up.


    "Steady," Maya murmurs beside me. "Remember your training boy."


    Bang.


    The first volley of rifle fire echoes across the field. Steam tanks groan forward. My heart starts pumping, and for a moment, I dare to hope our technology might prevail.


    Then the mages respond.


    Boom!


    Earth erupts beneath our front lines, swallowing entire squadrons in my line of sight. Walls of flame slice through our formations. I watch in horror as a single mage turns our largest steam tank barreling towards them to ice, its crew frozen solid inside, unable to do anything.


    "Hold the line!" Maya exclaims, even she looks at the magic in awe, but her voice is drowned by screams.


    Our company charges forward¡ªit''s what we''re paid for, after all. But against this magic, we might as well be children throwing stones at a mountain.


    Im reminded yet again, just how unfair this disgusting power that the fairies use.


    The world spins as I hit the ground hard, my snake-knife dispersing from the impact. Dirt and blood fill my mouth. Through the ringing in my ears, steel-clad boots crunch closer.


    Two Egozian soldiers emerge from the chaos, their dirty uniforms marking them as common infantry. The taller one lunges with his spear while his partner circles right, aiming to flank me.


    My tattoo pulses, and the snake-knife materialises just in time to deflect the spear thrust. I roll left, sweeping my other blade at the second soldier''s legs, attempting to take it clean off. He jumps back, but not quite far enough. Blood sprays from his calf.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "Bloody mercenary scum!" The spearman drives forward again.


    I spring up between them, both blades moving in opposite arcs. The wounded one''s sword meets my regular blade with a clang, deflecting it with my power. While my snake-knife slides along the spear shaft. Close combat¡ª just where I want them.


    The spearman''s eyes widen as I step inside his reach.


    Bang.


    My elbow cracks against his nose. He stumbles, blood flowing down his broken nose, spear clattering away. His partner tries to help, but his injured leg slows him.


    I drive my knee into the spearman''s gut, then slam his head into my rising blade. The snake-knife thirsts for his throat¡ª


    Something hard crashes into the back of my skull. Stars explode across my vision¡ªmy grip loosening¡ª dispersing my blades onto the battlefield. My knees buckle as two more soldiers appear behind me, one holding a wooden club.


    "Got the bastard!" A voice calls out triumphantly.


    I try to stand, to fight, but another blow sends darkness crashing in.


    Then everything goes black.


    <hr>


    *****


    I was five years old.


    The needle bites into my skin, each prick marking the sacred path of our ancestors. Father''s steady hand traces the serpentine pattern across my forearm, his weathered face fixed in concentration. The pain is sharp, but I refuse to flinch. This is my birthright¡ªmy first tattoo.


    "The snake brings swiftness, predation," Father says, dipping the bone needle in mystical ink once more. "In time, it will become your blade."


    Through the open flap of our tent, distant drums echo across our mountain valley. The autumn wind carries whispers of change, of the spreading cities with their steam-powered monstrosities and magic-wielding rulers.


    "The world grows smaller," Father continues, his voice heavy. "Our ways... they fear what they don''t understand. The kingdoms, they see our tattoos as primitive, Mark. But they forget¡ªwe were here first. We knew the old magics before they corrupted them."


    The final stroke complete, Father wraps my arm in herb-soaked cloth. "We are the last tribe that remembers. That''s why they¡ª"


    A horn blast splits the air. Not our signal. Different. Wrong.


    Father''s head snaps up. "Inside. Now."


    But I''m already at the tent''s entrance, transfixed by the sight. A woman in crimson robes stands atop the ridge, her hair like a living flame against the grey sky. Fire blooms from her hands, turning our wooden palisades to ash.


    She turns. Crimson eyes lock onto mine.


    An unfamiliar feeling, despair.


    "Camilla," Father spits the name like poison. He manifests a gigantic club, the bear tattoos on his chest beginning to pulse with blue light. He roars loudly "Run, Mark. Run!"


    I bolt, but the slippery heat finds me first. Fire rains from above, catching tents, warriors, and children. Our mighty defenders leap forward, their tattoos blazing, their weapons whistling through the dusty wind¡ªwolves, eagles, bears¡ªbut her flames are absolute.


    Schlink.


    Waves of fire cut through them like paper. It looked supernatural, such force, such power. My new snake tattoo tingles, churning a primal instinct to come out, to reap. It yearns to respond, to become the knife it promises, but it''s too new, too young, too weak.


    Much like me.


    The burns come next. Searing pain splashes across my neck, my back, my chest. I scream, or try to at least. Rolling in the dirt, but the magical fire clings like oil, it declines to detach from me. Through tears, I see Father charge the witch, his bear-spirit manifesting in a rush of blue light. Other warriors join him, buying time as mothers grab distraught children, as elders point to different escape routes.


    I crawl toward the forest''s edge, each movement agony. The trees swaying at the wind created from her. Swaying in ways that appear to be laughing at me, mocking my attempt at escape.


    Behind me, Father roars again, hoarsely this time¡ªthe sound becoming a death cry cut brutally short. My fresh snake tattoo pulses once, my skin felt like it was being torn open.


    Twice, I could feel a wriggling that felt nauseating, and finally, something manifests in my mangled hand¡ªa small knife, barely longer than my palm, appearing in my loose grip.


    The witch''s laughter carries across the burning valley. "The last of the marked ones, Finally" she calls out coldly. "Your primitive, disgusting ways die today."


    I reach the treeline, darkness taking me as crackling flames consume everything I''ve ever known.


    <hr>


    *****


    Clang


    I wake to chains rattling around and encasing my dirty hands, surrounded by stone walls. My weapon is gone, I''m cold and hungry, but my tattoo still pulses beneath my skin. Through iron bars, I see others¡ªyoung soldiers from Jeolara, barely old enough to hold rifles, now prisoners like me.


    "Look at this one, isn''t he something," a guard says, peering at my body. "Look at his tattered body."


    I search for familiar faces among the prisoners, but find none. Maya. Dex. The others. All gone.


    The guard continues, "Take him to the special holding cells. The High Marshal will want to examine this one personally."


    I don''t resist as they drag me away. Not yet. But my tattoo writhes, eager for vengeance, and I think of Camilla. Her clean vermillion hair enchanted in the fire, swaying in the magical wind, her cold expressionless appearance, constantly reminding me of my drive.


    Another mage, another prison. History repeats itself.


    But this time, I''m not a child. And this time, I''m ready.


    The guards drag me through dimly lit corridors, clearly a technique to mess with me. My chains rattle with each stumbling step, two can play that game. My tattoo pulses beneath my skin, yearning to manifest, but I keep it in check. Not yet. Not here.


    We stop before an ornate door with brass fittings shaped like flames¡ªthe Egozian royal emblem. One guard knocks while the other tightens his grip on my arm. Any harder and it might break.


    "Enter," commands a stern voice from within.


    They shove me into a spacious chamber. Bookshelves line the walls, and a massive desk dominates the center. Behind it sits a bony man with a meticulously trimmed beard and cold, calculating black eyes. The High Marshal of Egozia I presume.


    A woman sits across from him, her posture relaxed despite the chains around her wrists. She has black hair pulled back in a practical style, a striking physique and even in prisoner''s garb, she carries herself with confidence. She glances at me half-heartedly, her blue eyes assessing, then returns her attention to the Marshal.


    "As I was saying," the Marshal continues, "your steam engines are impressive, but primitive. Tell me about the new prototypes your engineers were developing."


    The woman¡ªclearly from Jeolara¡ªshrugs. "Wouldn''t know. I just drive what they give me."


    "Miss H?nel," he says, drumming his fingers on the desk, "we found you at the controls of an advanced scout vehicle. Surely you understand I cannot believe you''re merely a... chauffeur."


    "Believe what you want." She stretches her legs out, chains clinking. "But engines go vroom, I make them go vroom faster. That''s the extent of my expertise."


    The Marshal''s eye twitches. "Your insolence does you no favors."


    "Neither does your cologne, but here we are."


    I almost smile despite myself. The Marshal''s face darkens as he turns to me.


    "Ah, our special guest. The guards tell me you have some... interesting markings." He rises, circling the desk. "Remove your shirt."


    I remain still, meeting his gaze. I browse my options on whether I act in front of this fairy.


    "I said, remove your shirt." His voice drops dangerously. And a piercing aura starts to form.


    "Go fuck yourself."


    The Marshal''s hand shoots out, a faint glow emanating from his fingertips. My chest constricts, lungs refusing to fill with air. Magic. I recognise the sensation immediately¡ªthe same helplessness I felt watching my tribe burn.


    "I don''t typically dirty my hands with interrogations," he says calmly as I struggle to breathe, "but for special cases, I make exceptions."


    The pressure increases. Black spots dance across my vision.


    "Show me your markings, tribesman."


    I fall to my knees, hatred burning hotter than the pain in my chest. My tattoo writhes beneath my skin, responding to my rage.


    "Careful," the woman¡ªH?nel¡ªspeaks up. You might not like what happens when you push him."


    The Marshal turns slightly. "Explain?"


    "I know enough to recognize when someone''s about to lose control of a situation." She leans forward. "And your carpet looks expensive."


    The pressure eases slightly. I gulp in air, fighting to maintain control of both my body and the knife trying to manifest.


    "Interesting." The Marshal steps back. "Two peculiar prisoners in one day. Perhaps you should both reconsider your positions."


    "I''m reconsidering lunch options," H?nel says, examining her nails. "Prison food is universally terrible, but yours might set a new standard for awful."


    The Marshal''s face flushes. "You mock me while in chains?"


    "No, I''d mock you regardless of my situation. The chains are incidental."


    I''ve regained enough breath to speak. "She''s right about one thing," I rasp. "You don''t want to push me."


    The Marshal studies me, then smiles thinly. "I think I''ll let you both contemplate your circumstances in the special holding cells. Perhaps a few days without food will improve your attitudes."


    He gestures to the guards, who haul us to our feet.


    As they lead us out, H?nel glances at me. "Nice to meet someone else who thinks he''s an arse. I''m Anja."


    "Mark," I reply, my voice still rough.


    "Well, Mark, looks like we''re neighbors in this lovely establishment." She nods toward my arm where my tattoo pulses beneath my sleeve. "Hope you''ve got something interesting up your sleeve. I have a feeling we''ll need it."

 Chapter 2 - Who are you?

    The special holding cells aren''t what I expect. Clean stone walls, a proper cot with blankets, even a small window¡ªbarred, of course¡ªletting in streams of daylight. I''ve slept in mercenary camps far worse than this.


    "This is what they call punishment?" Anja''s voice echoes from the cell beside mine. We''re separated by thick iron bars rather than solid walls, not much for privacy. "I''ve stayed in inns with fewer amenities." she says joyfully.


    I grunt in response, sitting on the edge of my cot, examining the tattoo on my arm. It''s settled now, no longer writhing beneath my skin, but I can feel its restlessness, maybe I should caress it.


    "Not much for conversation, are you?" She leans against the bars between us. "That''s fine. I can talk enough for both of us." Anja''s lips curl upwards at an alarming degree.


    And she does. For three days.


    <hr>


    "The roast duck at Haversmith''s in the Lower Quarter¡ªabsolute perfection."


    No idea where that is.


    "Crispy skin, meat falling off the bone, with this cherry reduction that''s just..." She kisses her fingertips. "Divine. Though nothing beats my mother''s sp?tzle with brown butter and sage."


    I try to tune her out, focusing instead on planning my escape, but her boisterous voice cuts through my concentration like a well-honed blade.


    "So where were you before getting captured?" she asks on the second day, while describing in excruciating detail the mechanics of some steam-powered contraption that she liked to work on. "You''ve got that mercenary look about you." She says passively, testing the waters.


    I consider ignoring her, but there''s something disarming about her directness.


    "Captain Maya''s company," I answer curtly.


    "Maya the Merciless?" Her eyebrows shoot up. "Heard she once took out an entire squad of knights single-handedly."


    "It was three knights. And she had help."


    "Still impressive." She studies me. "How''d you end up with her lot?" A curious look on her eyes.


    The question edges too close to the memories I keep locked away. "She found me. Trained me. Now I''m here."


    "And before that?"


    Before that¡­


    The ruby eyes that fixated on me, the feeling of dread, helplessness. A disgusting feeling. One that I trained out of me, one that I bled to get rid of.


    The woman that haunts my dreams, in that spotless dress, that laid waste to a graveyard of my tribesmen.


    Camilla.


    I snap back to the present, where a girl with raven-black hair observes me. Quite the contrast to the sorceress.


    My jaw tightens. "There is no before that." I say bluntly.


    She nods, seeming to understand the boundary she hits. "Fair enough. I have a few ''no before thats'' myself." She shifts topics seamlessly. "Do you know the new six-cylinder engines they''re developing in Jeolara can reach speeds of¡ª"


    The High Marshal visits each day, standing silently outside our cells. His black eyes bore into us, expecting hunger and desperation to weaken our resolve. Instead, he finds Anja chattering away about the perfect consistency of mashed potatoes while I sit in meditative silence.


    With each visit, his composure cracks further¡ªa twitching eye, a clenched jaw, fingers curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.


    I wonder where Maya is, or the mercs.


    "I think we''re driving him mad," Anja whispers after his third visit, his departure marked by the slamming of the dungeon door. "He expected us to be begging for food and freedom by now."


    "He underestimates what we had endured before this." I reply icily


    She grins. "I''m starting to like you, Mark. You''re a man of few words, but they''re usually the right ones."


    On the morning of the fourth day, guards arrive with keys rather than food trays.


    "The High Marshal has determined you''re to be set free," declares a stern-looking woman wearing an officer''s regalia.


    "Told you he''d break first," Anja whispers as the cell doors swing open.


    They''re escorted up from the dungeons, through corridors of polished stone and gleaming brass fixtures that speak of Egozia''s wealth and pride. Eventually, they''re led to a small office where the High Marshal awaits, sleek glasses on his paper. A couple stacks of paper neatly lined next to him. His face a careful mask of neutrality.


    "Your resilience is... noted," he announces, not looking up from the papers on his desk. "However, I cannot allow potential spies to roam freely."


    "We''re not¡ª" Anja begins, but he raises a hand.


    "You will remain in Egozia under observation. And since idle hands invite mischief, you''ll be enrolled in the Grand Academy."


    "School?" Anja sounds genuinely offended. "I''m eighteen."


    "The Academy accepts students of all ages," he replies coolly. "Particularly those with... unique talents that require proper channeling."


    His piercing gaze flicks to me¡ªwhere my tattoo lies hidden beneath my sleeve¡ª then to Anja.


    "Consider it an opportunity. Education in Egozia opens many doors." His smile doesn''t reach his eyes. "Or consider it your prison. The choice is yours, but the outcome remains the same."


    Anja crosses her arms. "And if we refuse?"


    "Then you''ll find our standard cells far less comfortable than the special holding area." He signs a document with a flourish. "Your academic journey begins tomorrow. I suggest you prepare accordingly."


    He turns his head back to a different stack of papers and ushers the guards to take them away.


    I pause at the doorway, my feet refusing to move. The question burns in my throat, demanding to be asked despite knowing the answer might shatter what little hope I have left.


    "Where is Captain Maya? And the rest of the company?"


    The High Marshal looks up from his papers, his expression blank. "I don''t know." He adjusts his glasses, then a slight smile creeps across his face. "Though after a moment''s consideration... they''re probably dead. My mages are exceptionally skilled. I wouldn''t expect anything less."


    The words hit like a physical blow. My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into palms. My heart aches, the snake tattoo writhes beneath my skin, sharing my rage.


    How many more.


    <hr>


    The guards lead us out through a side entrance of what I now realize is the central administrative building. We step into Egozia''s streets, sunlight burning my eyes after days in the dim cells.


    "Freedom!" Anja exclaims and stretches her arms wide, nearly hitting a passing nobleman who gives her a look of barely concealed disdain. "Well, sort of. What now?"


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    My mind races with possibilities¡ª Maya could have escaped, regrouped somewhere. The company survived worse. But the Marshal''s words gnaw deep at me, along with the growing certainty that I''m alone again.


    "Right, you look like you need feeding up." Anja grabs my wrist, steering me through cobbled streets. "Food fixes everything."


    I try to pull away. "I should scout the perimeter, find¡ª"


    "Find what? We''re stuck here. Might as well get to know our prison." She points to a bustling caf¨¦. "Starting with breakfast." Anja proclaims, both hands now grabbing my arm with surprising strength, "we could eat something that isn''t prison gruel and actually see this pompous city before we''re stuck in some stuffy academy."


    But I just have to survey quickly along the way. Distract my mind a little.


    Wide cobblestone streets, buildings of expensive-looking white stone and dark timber, brass fixtures gleaming in the midday sun. Citizens in fine clothing move with purpose, backs straight, chins lifted.


    My mind is already mapping escape routes, assessing guard patterns, calculating distances to the city walls. The High Marshal''s offer also feels like a trap, but without knowing the city or having resources, a hasty escape would be foolish.


    So many possibilities.


    The caf¨¦ serves delicate pastries that Anja declares ''adequate'' but ''nothing like proper Berlynr''. We move to a pub for lunch, where she picks apart the schnitzel''s breading while well-dressed patrons cast sideways glances at our prison-wrinkled clothes. For dinner, she drags me to a supposedly upscale restaurant where the portions are tiny and the prices enormous.


    "This is what passes for fine dining?" She pushes away a half-finished plate. "Where''s the hearty stuff? The proper dumplings? The real sauerkraut?"


    Between meals, she insists on visiting the industrial quarter. The first workshop we find is more rust than steam, with pipes held together by hope and string.


    "Amateur hour," she mutters, examining a sputtering engine. "Look at these connections - they''re losing half their pressure. And these gauges? Might as well be decorative."


    "Look at these rivets," she scoffs, examining the machine with expert eyes. "Amateur work. And the pressure valve is practically begging to explode. In Jeolara, even children-"


    The second workshop isn''t much better. Anja launches into a detailed critique of their belt system while the owner pretends not to hear, nose lifted high.


    I should be planning, preparing for tomorrow''s Academy, figuring out escape routes. Instead, I find myself actually listening as she explains why the gear ratios are all wrong. Her enthusiasm is... infectious.


    Later, we stumble upon a square where street performers operate elaborate puppet shows using steam-powered automatons. The crowd applauds as a tiny brass knight battles a dragon spewing real sparks.


    "Cute toys," Anja mutters under her breath. "But the gear ratios are all wrong. That''s why the movements are so jerky. And those steam vents are completely inefficient."


    Despite her criticism, I notice how her eyes light up at each new mechanical discovery. There''s genuine passion there, not just national pride.


    "Maya would have liked you," I say suddenly, surprising myself.


    Anja pauses mid-rant about inferior brass quality. "Yeah?"


    "She appreciated people who knew their craft. Even if they talked too much about it."


    "I''ll take that as a compliment." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "Tell me about her?"


    I hesitate, but the words come easier than expected. "She found me when I was six. Took in this angry kid who couldn''t even hold a knife properly. Taught me everything - fighting, tactics, how to survive. She was..." I swallow hard. "She was family."


    "Then she''s probably out there somewhere, planning how to break into this stuck-up city and rescue you." Anja''s voice holds absolute certainty. "Meanwhile, we''ll survive this Academy business. Though I warn you, I''m rubbish at sitting still in lectures."


    "You? Really?"


    She grins at my dry tone. "Was that actual sarcasm? We''ll make a proper person out of you."


    The sun sets as we walk back through streets lined with gleaming brass and polished stone. Wealthy citizens sweep past in elaborate outfits, noses turned up but eyes lingering on our shabby appearance with poorly concealed interest.


    I catch my reflection in a shop window - my white hair heavily disheveled from days in the cell, tribal tattoo hidden beneath a borrowed shirt that''s slightly too small for my muscular frame. Dirty and disheveled, I stand out among these polished citizens like a wolf among lapdogs. My red eyes, a mark of my tribe, draw wary glances from passersby.


    Beside me, Anja looks equally out of place, but carries herself with complete indifference to the stares. Her black hair falls in messy waves around her face, and despite the prison grime, she moves with the confident grace of someone who knows exactly who she is. The borrowed dress she wears - probably meant for someone more delicate - strains slightly across her athletic shoulders.


    "We should find somewhere to sleep," she says, eyeing the darkening sky. "Unless you fancy camping in one of these fancy gardens?"


    "The Marshal mentioned dormitories at the Academy." I scan the towering spires ahead. "We should head there."


    "Always so practical." She sighs dramatically. "Fine, let''s go be good little students. But tomorrow, you''re helping me find a proper workshop. These Egozian mechanics are an embarrassment to engineering."


    We make our way through increasingly grand streets, the buildings growing taller and more ornate. Brass and copper fixtures gleam in the lamplight, and the air carries the tang of magic - that sickening sweetness that sets my teeth on edge.


    The Academy looms ahead, a sprawling complex of Gothic architecture and magical engineering. Spires pierce the sky like spears, connected by delicate bridges that seem to float on air. Steam vents release carefully controlled bursts between classical columns, and runic symbols pulse with soft light along the walls.


    My tattoo itches beneath my sleeve, responding to the magical atmosphere. I force down the familiar surge of hatred. This isn''t the time or place for those feelings.


    "Well," Anja whistles, taking in the grandiose entrance. "They certainly aren''t subtle about their wealth, are they?"


    Two guards stand at attention beside massive brass doors engraved with scenes of magical triumph. They eye us suspiciously but step aside when I present the papers the Marshal gave us.


    Inside, the entrance hall stretches impossibly high, supported by columns of marble and brass. Students in neat uniforms move purposefully across the polished floor, some carrying books, others with strange devices that whir and click. A few practice simple spells, making lights dance between their fingers.


    I clench my jaw so hard it aches.


    "Your rooms have been prepared," a stern-faced administrator appears, somehow making the statement sound like an accusation. "Follow me."


    As we climb endless stairs, I can''t shake the feeling that we''ve walked straight into the Marshal''s trap. But looking at Anja''s determined stride beside me, I realize I''m not alone this time.


    That thought is both comforting and terrifying.


    "They''re so proud they''d break their necks looking down on people," Anja mutters. "But tomorrow we play their game, yes?"


    I nod, mind already mapping out the Academy''s potential layout, escape routes, weak points. But for now, my thoughts keep drifting back to Maya, to the company that became my home after losing everything once before.


    "Thank you," I say quietly. "For today."


    "That''s what friends do." She yawns dramatically. "Now, let''s find where they''re stashing us for the night. I need beauty sleep before shocking these proper folk with my existence tomorrow."


    How is she so unbothered?


    "We''re being forced into their school. Doesn''t that concern you?"


    She shrugs. "Better than a cell. Or execution. Besides, knowledge is power, right? Learn what they know, use it against them later."


    I study her face, finding no deception there. Just practical thinking.


    "You''re strange," I tell her.


    She laughs. "Says the man with the living tattoo."


    So she did notice it.


    Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward.


    "There it is!" she exclaims. "Almost a smile. Progress!"


    "This way to the female dormitories," a guard points Anja down a separate path.


    "Try not to break anything before classes start," she calls over her shoulder. "And eat something proper!"


    I watch her zip around a corner before following my own escort through iron gates that could fit three carriages side by side. The Academy grounds stretch before me, all manicured lawns and geometric gardens dotted with statues of stern-faced men and women frozen mid-gesture.


    Students mill about in pressed uniforms, their chatter dying down as I pass. I tower over most of them, my mercenary-honed frame making their scholarly builds seem fragile and minute in comparison. A group of younger students scramble out of my path, whispering behind their hands. "Disgraceful brute."


    The male dormitory rises like a small castle, all white stone and brass fixtures. Inside, portraits line the halls - more proud faces with titles like "Grand Scholar" and "Master of Egozia" beneath them. Their painted eyes follow my progress up sweeping staircases and down plush-carpeted corridors.


    "Your room," the guard leisurely announces, stopping at a heavy wooden door marked 200. He hands me a key and leaves without another word.


    The room is larger than any I''ve slept in since the tribe. Two beds with actual mattresses sit against opposite walls, both empty. A desk beneath tall windows. Brass lamps with delicate glass shades. Even a private bathroom with actual hot water plumbing - luxury I''ve only seen in noble houses we''ve guarded.


    I check the corners, the window latches, possible weapons. Old habits. The second bed is bare - no roommate yet. Good. Fewer complications.


    My few possessions fit in one drawer of the massive wardrobe. The rest stands empty, waiting for proper uniforms and academic texts, I suppose. Everything smells of polish and fresh linens.


    Too clean. Too proper. Too perfect.


    I sit on the bed¡ª my bed, apparently¡ª and let my fingers trace the snake tattoo. Even it seems subdued here, as if the Academy''s rigid atmosphere affects its wild nature.


    The sun sets beyond the windows, casting long shadows through the garden statues. Tomorrow, classes begin. Tomorrow, I play their game.


    But tonight. I map escape routes and memorise guard rotations, watching the grounds from my window as darkness falls.

 Chapter 3 - Professor Yapper

    I wake to the unfamiliar softness beneath me. For a moment, panic grips my chest¡ªwhere am I? Then yesterday''s events flood back. The Marshal. The Academy. The trap disguised as mercy.


    Sunlight streams through tall windows, casting peculiar patterns across the polished floor. I''ve slept longer than intended. Years of mercenary life trained me to wake before dawn, but something about this place dulled my senses.


    I don''t like this place.


    The private bathroom beckons with its gleaming fixtures. I approach cautiously, turning brass knobs until hot water rushes from the showerhead. Steam fills the small space as I strip down, eyeing my reflection in the mirror. The snake tattoo seems to shimmer in the condensation, almost restless.


    The water pressure is perfect¡ªanother luxury I''m unaccustomed to. I scrub quickly, and efficiently, as if someone might burst in and declare I''ve used too much of their precious water. Old habits.


    After drying off, I stand before the mirror again. My fingers trace the network of scars crossing my torso¡ªeach one a lesson, each one a memory, with some being the harshest.


    I run a hand through my short white hair, still damp from the shower. The tribal cut remains, despite everything. My face stares back at me¡ªall sharp angles and hard lines, red eyes unblinking. Not a face that belongs in a school.


    I flex my arms experimentally, watching muscles ripple beneath tanned skin. Still strong. Still ready. The tattoo shifts slightly with the movement, as if approving of my continued vigilance and resilience.


    Clean and dressed in my worn mercenary clothes, I face the day with growing unease. What now? No one provided instructions, schedules, or expectations. Do I report somewhere? Attend something? In the mercenary company, daily routines were clear¡ªtraining, patrols, and meals at designated times.


    The hallway outside my room bustles with purposeful activity. Students in pressed uniforms move with confidence, clearly knowing their destinations. I stand out like a bloodstain on silk. An outsider.


    A young man with spectacles approaches, clutching books to his chest. "Excuse me," I say, my voice sounding rougher than intended. "Where am I supposed to go?"


    He looks up, startled, then takes an instinctive step backwards. "I¡ªI wouldn''t know about... your kind''s arrangements." He hurries past, shoulders hunched.


    My kind. I try again with a passing girl, who pretends not to hear me. A third student simply sneers and mutters something about "lowering standards."


    I need to find Anja. She might understand this place better. But which way to the female dormitories? I wander corridors that all look identical, passing lecture halls where professors drone about theoretical magical constructs and historical treaties.


    One door stands ajar. Inside, students sit in neat rows while an elderly man gestures at symbols drawn on a large slate. Runic magic. I recognise some of the patterns from my mercenary endeavours, though I never used them.


    I pause at the threshold, just for a moment.


    "Well, well," the professor''s voice cuts through the murmurs. "It seems our... special admission has graced us with his presence."


    Twenty pairs of eyes turn toward me. Some curious, most disdainful.


    "Perhaps you''d care to demonstrate your understanding of basic runic principles?" The professor''s smile doesn''t reach his eyes. "Or do mercenaries prefer to solve problems with brute force rather than intellect?"


    Laughter ripples through the room. I say nothing, backing away.


    The next room is worse. A practical demonstration of elemental magic halts mid-spell as I appear.


    "Class, observe," a sharp-featured woman announces. "This is what happens when one relies solely on physical strength." She gestures toward me like I''m a specimen on display. "No refinement. No understanding of the subtle energies or essence that govern our world. Just... muscle."


    More stares. More whispers.


    "Does it speak?" someone asks loudly, resulting in the crowd graciously giggling.


    I''ve had enough. I turn and stride through corridors, ignoring the stares that follow me, until I find an exit leading to an empty training yard behind the dormitories. The space is small but sufficient¡ªa patch of grass surrounded by stone walls likely meant for minor physical exercise between magical studies.


    Perfect.


    Grabbing my outer shirt, I strip. Push-ups first, eighty in quick succession. Pull-ups on a low-hanging branch of a sturdy ornamental tree. Pistol squats. Core work¡ªnever overlook a weak core. The familiar burn in my muscles centers me, and drowns out the morning''s humiliations.


    I need more intensity. Comfort in unfamiliar territory.


    Sweat drips from my brow as I unsheathe my knife. The snake tattoo writhes beneath my skin, eager for release. But as the blade materializes fully in my hand, something feels... wrong.


    The air here is different. Thicker somehow, charged with unseen energy. My tattoo pulses uncomfortably, the knife''s edge wavering as if struggling to maintain its form. The essence in this place¡ªconcentrated, refined through generations of magical practice¡ªinterferes with my connection to the weapon.


    I stare at the blade, watching it flicker between solid and translucent, feeling a strange tingling sensation crawl up my arm.


    What the hell.


    This has never happened before, back in Jeolara I never had this feeling before, but not just feeling. Why''s my knife acting up.


    It was eager just a moment ago, and now it''s shy?


    I focus on the flickering blade, willing it to stabilise. The snake tattoo pulses erratically, like it''s fighting against something in the air itself.


    "Fascinating reaction." A voice breaks my concentration. "The essence interference is quite pronounced, isn''t it?"


    I whirl around, knife raised. A tall, bald man stands at the edge of the training yard, massive glasses reflecting the morning light. His pale skin seems almost translucent in the sun.


    "Please, don''t let me interrupt." He takes a step forward, speaking so rapidly I could barely catch the words. "Though I must say, the way your weapon manifests¡ªor rather, struggles to manifest¡ªin our academy''s concentrated essence field is absolutely remarkable. I''ve never seen anything quite like it. Have you noticed any other peculiar effects? Changes in the tattoo''s behaviour perhaps? The resonance patterns are quite¡ª"


    "Stay back." My voice comes out as a deep growl.


    He blinks and adjusts his glasses. "Oh! Where are my manners? Professor Leok Hallinfear, Theoretical Applications of Binding Energies." He extends a hand, then withdraws it when I don''t move. "Though I suspect formal introductions aren''t your preferred method of communication."


    Something''s off about him. No robes, no staff, none of the typical mage trappings. Just plain clothes and those ridiculous glasses. But there''s an energy about him, a subtle wrongness that makes my skin crawl.


    "I have two colleagues," he continues, pacing as he talks. "Brilliant minds in runic studies. They''d be fascinated by your... unique condition. Perhaps we could¡ª"


    He turns his back to me.


    My body moves before I can think. In two steps, I''m behind him. My hands position themselves for a killing strike¡ªone to the base of the skull, one to twist. Quick. Clean. Silent.


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    My first mage kill. I have yearned for this. I can finally satiate my hunger with a drop. He will be the first of many.


    But I hesitate.


    This man... he doesn''t carry himself like a mage. No arrogance in his stance, no carefully measured movements. He''s still talking, oblivious to how close to death he stands.


    "¡ªand the applications could revolutionise our understanding of essence transfer. The implications for non-traditional channelling alone would¡ª" He spins around, nearly walking into me. "Oh! Still there? Excellent! So what do you say? Shall we visit my colleagues?"


    I lower my hands slowly, studying him. No fear in those golden eyes behind the glasses. Just... curiosity. Pure, unrestrained academic interest.


    Could I have been wrong? Maybe he''s just a scholar, not a true mage. The thought doesn''t fully quiet the rage in my blood, but it gives me pause.


    The knife in my hand flickers again, drawing his attention.


    "Ah yes, that instability." He leans forward, squinting through those massive lenses. "I have a theory about the local essence density affecting your connection. If you''d allow us to run some tests¡ª"


    "No tests." I step back, sheathing the unstable blade. "No scholars. No mages."


    "But surely you want to understand why your abilities are being affected? Knowledge is power, after all. And in this case, quite literally so."


    I watch Leok pace back and forth, his words blending together as he rambles. My knife''s now safely tucked away, though the unsettling sensation lingers in my arm.


    "¡ªthose eyes, quite remarkable really. Reminds me of the colonies in... was it Guldor? No, no, perhaps Haven. Though Haven''s genetic markers tend towards a more burgundy shade, unless we factor in the eastern settlements where¡ª" He pauses, and adjusts his glasses. "But then again, Guldor''s population does show similar traits, especially in the mining districts. Though their documentation is rather spotty, what with all the territorial disputes..."


    He continues talking to himself, switching between theories without pause. I''ve killed men for less irritating behaviour, yet something about his genuine absorption in his own thoughts stays my hand.


    Do I have a soft spot for smart folk?


    The snake tattoo pulses again, reminding me of its earlier instability. I glance at my arm, then back at the still-muttering professor. Knowledge about these powers could prove useful. The mercenaries taught me how to fight, but they knew nothing about the tattoo themselves. And if my weapon is going to malfunction...


    "¡ªDefinitely not Haven, their records clearly show¡ª"


    "Professor," I cut through his monologue. His head snaps up, like he''s forgotten I''m here. "No tests."


    "Of course, of course!" His face brightens.


    "Just talking. Nothing else." I bluntly add.


    "Absolutely! Just a scholarly discussion. Though if you''d consider¡ª"


    "No."


    "Right, right. Shall we?" He gestures toward the building, already turning to lead the way. "My colleagues should be in the eastern wing. Unless Professor Kaine is still conducting his experiment with crystalline resonance, in which case he might be in the lower laboratories, though last week''s incident with the essence containment might have¡ª"


    I follow him, keeping a careful distance. My hand stays near my knife, though I doubt it would fully materialise if needed. Better to rely on bare hands if things go wrong.


    The snake tattoo thrums against my skin, as if sensing my unease. Or perhaps it''s reacting to something else in these halls. Either way, I need answers.


    I follow Leok through winding corridors, my footsteps silent against the polished floor. He hasn''t stopped talking since we left the training yard, words spilling out in an endless stream that I''ve learned to tune out.


    The lecture hall doors swing open to reveal a cavernous space, its tiered seating mostly empty save for a handful of students. Some doze with their heads propped on folded arms, while others scratch idly in notebooks, paying no attention to the front of the room.


    Two scholars stand near a large slate covered in intricate runic symbols, gesturing animatedly at each other. The woman, barely taller than a child, jabs her finger at a particular rune.


    "¡ªcompletely inverted his gravity form! Poor man spent three hours walking on the ceiling before we could reverse it."


    The male scholar, equally diminutive, shakes his head. "Still better than Apprentice Doran. His misdrawn protection circle sent him halfway across the city. Materialised right in the middle of a noble''s dinner party."


    "Fascinating cases!" Leok bursts forward, making me tense. "But colleagues, you simply must see what I''ve discovered! A completely unique manifestation of essence channelling through dermal markings, possibly linked to primal energy signatures, though the resonance patterns suggest¡ª"


    "Leok," the woman cuts in, "breathe."


    He inhales sharply, then launches right back in. "Right, yes, breathing, important for proper scholarly discourse, though I once knew a mage who claimed to sustain himself purely through essence absorption, which reminds me of the theoretical framework proposed by¡ª"


    "The point, Leok?" The male scholar raises an eyebrow.


    "Ah! Yes!" He spins around, gesturing wildly at me. "This specimen¡ªsubject¡ªperson exhibits remarkable properties! Tribal markings that interact with essence in ways I''ve never documented! The weapon manifestation alone suggests a completely novel approach to energy transference, though the local essence field seems to create interference patterns that¡ª"


    The two scholars finally notice me lurking in the shadows. Their eyes widen, but not with the usual fear or disgust I''m accustomed to. There''s that same academic hunger I saw in Leok.


    More people like him.


    "Remarkable indeed," the woman murmurs, taking a step closer. "Those eyes... definitely tribal stock. Northern regions perhaps?"


    "The musculature suggests intensive combat training," the man adds, circling me like I''m a prize horse. "But look at the stance¡ªperfectly balanced, ready to move in any direction. Not typical military drilling."


    "Mercenary," Leok supplies helpfully. "Though the tribal influence clearly predominates in the essence manipulation vectors, which brings us back to the fascinating weapon manifestation I observed. The local field density seems to create a dampening effect that¡ª"


    I growl low in my throat, stopping their circling. "I''m not here for examination."


    "Of course not!" Leok beams. "We''re simply having a scholarly discussion about your unique condition. Though if you''d consider a few simple tests¡ª"


    "No tests," I repeat firmly.


    The woman sighs. "Leok, you can''t just drag subjects¡ªpeople¡ªin here without proper protocols. Remember the incident with the shape-shifting cat?"


    "That was different! The cat clearly consented to¡ª"


    "It was a cat, Leok."


    I tune out their bickering, focusing instead on the runic diagrams covering the slate. Some symbols look familiar¡ªprotection circles, binding runes, channelling sigils. Things I''ve seen in combat but never fully understood.


    The male scholar notices my attention. "Interested in runic theory? These particular configurations demonstrate the importance of precise application. Even a slight misalignment can have... unexpected results."


    "Like ceiling-walking?" I ask before I can stop myself.


    He grins. "Exactly! Though that''s hardly the worst backfire we''ve seen. Last month, a student accidentally¡ª"


    "Speaking of backfires!" Leok interrupts. "The essence interference I observed earlier could potentially relate to the fundamental principles of runic stability! If we compare the energy signatures to traditional channelling methods..."


    He''s off again, dragging his colleagues into a technical discussion that quickly loses me. I stand forgotten in their enthusiasm, watching them gesture at diagrams and argue about theoretical frameworks.


    I lean against the wall, watching the three scholars debate. Their voices rise and fall, hands gesturing wildly at diagrams I barely understand. This could take hours.


    Might as well make use of the time.


    I turn toward the scattered students, most slumped over their desks in various states of boredom. A young man near me scratches abstract patterns into his notebook, completely ignoring the professors'' animated discussion.


    "Schedule," I say, keeping my voice low. "Where do I find mine?"


    He doesn''t look up. Just keeps scratching away with his quill.


    I try again with a girl two rows ahead. "Class assignments. Where?"


    She shifts in her seat, angling herself away from me. Her shoulders tense, but she says nothing.


    "Midnight," another student calls out with a smirk. "All your classes are at midnight. In the dungeons."


    A few others snicker.


    "No, no," someone else joins in. "Didn''t you hear? They''re putting him in with the first-years. Teaching him basic counting."


    More laughter.


    "Maybe he can learn to write his own name first?"


    I clench my fists, feeling the snake tattoo writhe beneath my skin. The urge to shut their mouths permanently rises in my throat like bile.


    Same as ever, fuckers.


    "Ah, finished!" Leok''s voice cuts through the tension. "Though we''ll need to run some tests to confirm¡ª"


    "No tests," I growl, turning back to the professors.


    "Just simple measurements! Nothing invasive. We merely need to quantify the essence interference patterns when you manifest the weapon. Perhaps a few baseline readings of your natural energy state, followed by¡ª"


    I shake my head.


    "Consider it, at least?" He adjusts his glasses. "The data could help us understand why your abilities are being affected. Knowledge is power, after all."


    The words hit something in me. If my weapons won''t work properly here...


    "Schedule first," I say. "Where do I find it?"


    "Oh! The administrative wing, of course! Western section, you can''t miss it. Massive bronze doors, very imposing. Though speaking of administrative matters, there was a fascinating incident last term involving misplaced paperwork that somehow gained sentience and¡ª"


    I''m already walking away before he can finish, leaving the scholars and their smirking students behind. Western wing. Bronze doors. Simple enough.


    At least it should be.

 Chapter 4 - The Room

    I stalk through the western corridors, my boots echoing against marble floors. Students part before me like water around a stone, their whispers following in my wake. Some don''t even bother to lower their voices.


    "Look at him¡ªlike a bull in a potions shop."


    "Heard he can''t even read."


    The administrative wing looms ahead, marked by towering bronze doors etched with flowing script. Inside, the space stretches vast and cold, dominated by row upon row of filing cabinets reaching toward vaulted ceilings.


    An ancient woman peers at me through thick spectacles, her desk piled high with papers. "Name?"


    "Mark."


    She blinks. "Last name?"


    "Just Mark."


    Her quill scratches against parchment. "Place of birth?"


    "Northern tribes."


    "Which tribe specifically?"


    "Does it matter?"


    She sighs, shuffling through forms. "Without proper documentation, we''ll need to file a special dispensation. Previous education?"


    "None."


    More scratching. More sighing. She vanishes behind a towering shelf, muttering about "irregular cases" and "proper procedures."


    Students filter in and out, their laughter cutting through the dusty silence. A group of boys hover near the entrance, pointing and whispering. One mimes swinging a club.


    "Savage."


    "Cave dweller."


    The old woman returns with a fresh stack of papers. "Parents'' names?"


    My jaw clenches. "Dead."


    "Yes, but for the records¡ª"


    "They''re dead. That''s all you need to know."


    She tuts, slowly reaching for yet another form. My fingers drum against the counter as she laboriously copies information between documents.


    A flash of light explodes beside my head, followed by crackling sparks. Magic.


    Pop Pop


    The acrid scent fills my nostrils as another burst pops near my ear.


    Two students stand grinning, fingers trailing magical residue. "Just giving him a proper welcome," one says, preparing another spell.


    Magic shot at me. The snake tattoo writhes beneath my skin, useless in this place. But I don''t need it.


    My heart pumps harder and faster. All reason and logic disperse.


    My fist connects with the first boy''s jaw before he can complete the gesture. Bones cracking, spit flying, screams, crying. He crashes into a filing cabinet as I grab the second one by his robes. My knuckles find his nose with a satisfying crunch.


    The first one scrambles up, blood streaming from his mouth. I drive my knee into his shallow stomach, then slam him face-first into the counter.


    "Stop this at once!" The old woman''s voice seems very far away.


    Fuck off.


    I''ve got the second boy in a chokehold when hands grab my shoulders, trying to pull me back. But all I can see is magic, all I can smell is that burning stench, and all I want is to make it stop.


    The magical sparks trigger something in my mind. Suddenly, I''m back there. The tribesmen''s heads aren''t just exploding¡ªthey''re popping like ripe fruit, spraying crimson across the mud. One, two, three. Pop, pop, pop. Almost comical, if it weren''t for the screams.


    And there she stands, Camilla, that same serene smile on her face as she conducts her symphony of death. Red hair flowing in the wind, dress pristine despite the carnage.


    "More pressure," her voice echoes in my head. "Squeeze harder."


    I comply, tightening my grip on what I think is her throat. Someone''s throat. The body in my grasp thrashes weakly.


    A violent force slams into my chest. My back hits the marble, hard. The impact jolts me back to reality¡ªthe administrative wing, the Grand Academy. The student I''d been choking collapses to his knees, gasping for air, his friends rushing to help him up.


    "Monster!"


    "He''s completely mental!"


    "Could have killed him!"


    The crowd of students grows, but they maintain a careful distance. Some hold their hands ready, magical energy crackling between their fingers. Their faces twist with disgust and fear.


    Was I wrong? The question flickers through my mind. They attacked first, but... I glance at the boy still wheezing on the floor. I''d nearly¡ª


    "Someone fetch the professors!"


    "No need, just put him down now!"


    Multiple students raise their hands, spells forming. I brace myself, muscles tensing. If they want a fight¡ª


    The air suddenly thickens. Everything stops. An oppressive weight bears down on us all, like being underwater. The students'' spells fizzle mid-cast.


    Heavy boots thunder against the marble. Black-uniformed figures push through the frozen crowd¡ªthe Academy Enforcers. Their badges gleam, marking them as senior students and guards.


    "Stand down!" One barks, though nobody can move anyway.


    Rough hands grab my arms. The world spins as they drag me away, corridors blurring past. Left, right, up stairs? I try to track our route, but my head''s still swimming with visions of popping skulls and Camilla''s smile.


    A door opens. They shove me inside somewhere. Everything''s still hazy, but I make out stone walls, no windows.


    I sit in this windowless room, my knuckles still stinging from the fight. The chair digs into my back, but I don''t shift. Won''t give them the satisfaction.


    Ten guards and students line the back and side walls, their stances rigid, hands hovering near weapons or ready to cast. Their eyes never leave me. Good. They should be wary.


    The burly man sprawls in his chair across the table, boots propped up like he owns the place. His uniform''s different¡ªdarker, more ornate. The crystal tumbler in his hand catches the light as he swirls that amber liquid. Mage beer. The expensive kind that nobles hoard. I''ve seen it once, when we raided a merchant caravan.


    My mind keeps replaying that wind spell that caught me. Sloppy. Should have seen it coming. Could have ducked left, used the filing cabinet as cover. Next time¡ªif there is a next time¡ªI''ll be ready. The thought of fighting mages again makes my blood sing. They''re not as untouchable as they think. Strip away their fancy spells, and they''re just flesh and bone.


    Strange. Haven''t seen Anja since yesterday. She''d probably laugh at this whole situation, and call me an idiot for losing control. But those sparks, that magic... It brought everything back. The screams, the blood, Camilla''s¡ª


    "This will take all bloody day," one of the students breaks the silence, shifting his weight. "Either we fuck him up or go somewhere else. Some of us have actual classes to attend."


    The burly man sets down his drink. The chair creaks as he straightens, rising to his full height. He''s taller than I expected, broader too. Could be trouble.


    My muscles coil, ready. If they want a fight, I''ll give them one. Even without my knife, I can take a few down before¡ª


    He takes a step forward, and I brace myself for whatever comes next.


    The burly man retrieves a leather-bound notebook from a nearby guard, slumping back into his seat.


    "Name?"


    I remain silent.


    "Right. Mark. Just Mark." He answers for me, scribbling something.


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    "Age?"


    "Old enough."


    He sighs. "Birthplace?"


    "North."


    "Which tribe specifically?"


    My jaw clenches. The same questions as before.


    "Background? Education? Combat training?"


    I stare at the wall behind him.


    He takes another sip of his drink. "Magical abilities?"


    That gets a reaction from me¡ªa snort of disgust.


    "Interesting." More scribbling. "Oh yeah..." His eyes light up as if remembering something. He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Let''s try something different. When you attacked those students, what were you feeling?"


    "They attacked first."


    "Not what I asked. What were you feeling?"


    I say nothing.


    He sighs, stretches. "Well, we could always call in the Invigilator. Brain Scooper might be cleaner though. Less... messy."


    My blood runs cold. I''ve heard whispers about mind-readers, and soul-probers. The kind of magic that leaves you drooling in a corner, if you''re lucky.


    "Nineteen," I mutter.


    "Pardon?"


    "My age. Nineteen."


    He nods, writing. "Now we''re getting somewhere. Combat training?"


    "Basic. Self-taught." Both lies. Captain Maya would laugh at that.


    "The witnesses say otherwise. Your form was... professional."


    I shrug. "Street fighting."


    "And your reaction to magic?"


    Images flash¡ªburning tents, screaming children. I push them down. "Don''t like it."


    "Clearly." He taps his quill. "Previous violent incidents?"


    "No." Another lie.


    "Family?"


    "Dead."


    "How?"


    My fingers dig into my thighs. "Accident."


    He raises an eyebrow. "All of them?"


    "Yes."


    "Interesting." More writing. "And these... episodes. Do they happen often?"


    "What episodes?"


    "The dissociation. Witnesses say you weren''t all there during the fight. Like someone else was driving. A few sparks loose"


    I force my face blank. "Don''t know what you mean."


    "Of course not." He closes his notebook. "One last thing¡ªthose markings you''re hiding under your sleeves. Tribal tattoos, perhaps?"


    My heart stops. How does he¡ª


    "Just decorative," I say carefully. "Nothing special."


    He smiles, but it doesn''t reach his eyes. "We''ll see about that."


    The man pulls something from his pocket¡ªa small brass device with whirring gears and pulsing crystals. He turns it over in his hands, the metal catching the light. My skin crawls as the crystals flash in sequence. Magic detector? Soul reader? Whatever it is, I don''t like it.


    His eyes flick between me and the device. The corners of his mouth twitch. Without a word, he sets it on the table with deliberate slowness, then walks out.


    The door clicks shut behind him. The guards shift, exchanging glances.


    "Bet he killed his whole family himself," one student whispers. "Look at those eyes."


    "Oi, savage," another calls out. "Got anything to say for yourself?"


    I stare at the wall.


    "Why didn''t you just stop?" A younger guard asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. "They were only playing around."


    The wall has exactly thirty-seven stones. I count them again.


    "He''s proper mental, this one."


    "Can''t even speak proper Common, I bet."


    The door opens. A woman glides in, all silk and perfume. She doesn''t take the chair, just stands there, fingernails tap-tap-tapping on the wooden table. The rhythm sets my teeth on edge.


    "Mark, dear," she says, voice honey-sweet. "We can make this easy. Just answer honestly, and you won''t have to see my colleague again." Her finger keeps tapping. "Though between us, he''s quite interested in those markings of yours. Has some... special tools for examining them."


    My stomach turns at the thought.


    "Let''s start simple, shall we?" Tap-tap-tap. "How old are you?"


    I swallow hard. "Sixteen."


    She smiles. More questions follow. Where was I born? (The North). My parents'' names? (Dead). Previous schooling? (None). Combat training? (Streets). Each answer carefully measured, mostly half-truths.


    Finally, she leans in close. "And those tattoos¡ªwhat power do they hold?"


    I meet her eyes. "I don''t know."


    She studies my face for a long moment, then straightens up. "Very well."


    She smiles even harder now "My work here is done. Thanks."


    An eerie feeling resounded the room, with some guards feeling uncomfortable.


    The guards release my arms, shoving me toward the door. As I step into the corridor, I catch sight of the burly man and the silk-clad woman huddled together near a window alcove. Their voices are low, but their faces are serious as they pour over that brass device.


    "Oi, trouble!" A familiar voice cuts through my thoughts. "Heard you gave those posh tossers a proper beating!"


    Anja leans against the wall, arms crossed, wearing that insufferable grin of hers. Her uniform''s already covered in grease stains somehow.


    "Not now," I growl, trying to push past.


    She falls into step beside me. "Oh, come off it. About bloody time someone knocked them down a peg. Bunch of entitled arseholes, the lot of them."


    "You weren''t there."


    "Didn''t need to be. Word travels fast here." She mimes a punching motion. "Two of them, yeah? Heard one''s still crying about his nose."


    I grunt, but can''t help the slight twitch at the corner of my mouth.


    "So," she continues, "while you were busy rearranging faces, I spent all morning looking for a proper workshop. You know what they''ve got instead? Bloody enchanting rooms. Enchanting! What''s the point of building something if you''re just going to magic it anyway?"


    "Found your schedule at least?"


    "Yeah, right after breakfast. You?"


    My silence answers for me.


    "Seriously?" She laughs. "All that fighting and you still didn''t get it? Classic Mark. Always doing things the hard way."


    "The professors aren''t much better," I mutter. "One called me ''primitive'' to my face. Another suggested I might be more comfortable in the stables."


    "Charming lot, aren''t they?" Anja kicks at a loose stone. "Better than my day though. Sat through three hours of some old bat droning on about ''magical resonance in mechanical constructs.'' A load of rubbish. Give me a proper engine any day."


    We turn down another corridor, the setting sun painting the walls orange through tall windows. Students scatter as we approach, whispering behind their hands.


    "Look," Anja says, "your reputation''s sorted at least. No one''s going to mess with you now."


    "Great. More attention."


    "Could be worse. Could be stuck in theoretical thaumaturgy like me." She affects a posh accent. "''Now class, observe as I turn this perfectly good clockwork into a useless pile of enchanted scrap.''"


    Despite everything, I almost smiled. Almost.


    The sun hangs low in the sky as we walk through the corridors. My stomach growls, reminding me how this day''s been wasted on pointless confrontations and questioning.


    "Right, that''s it." Anja grabs my arm, yanking me toward the east wing. "You need food."


    "I''m fine."


    "Bollocks. When''s the last time you ate? Yesterday?"


    I try to remember, but the day''s events blur together.


    "Exactly." She drags me through a set of double doors into one of the massive dining halls. "They do proper meals here. None of that fancy rubbish from the main hall."


    "You need your calories in, or else you''ll shrink."


    The smell of roasted meat hits me first. My stomach betrays me again with another growl.


    "See? Even your gut knows I''m right."


    We grab trays and pile them with food - actual food, not the dried rations I''m used to. But even as I eat, my mind keeps drifting back to the interrogation room, that brass device, the questions about my tattoo.


    "You''re doing that thing again," Anja says through a mouthful of bread.


    "What thing?"


    "That brooding thing. Where you go all quiet and murderous-looking."


    I grunt and push my plate away, still half-full.


    "Right then." She stands, stretching. "Best get back before curfew. Try not to kill anyone else tonight, yeah?"


    The corridors are quieter now. Three lefts, two rights, up the eastern staircase. I''ve memorised every turn, every possible exit. Old habits.


    Room 200 comes into view, but something''s off. Light spills from under the door - I definitely left it dark.


    I push it open slowly, my muscles tensing.


    "Hands up! This is for my fallen brothers!"


    A skinny figure jumps out from behind the door, wielding what looks like... a wooden spoon?


    Before I can react, he doubles over laughing. "Oh mate, you should see your face! Priceless!"


    My fists clench.


    "Whoa, whoa!" He backs up, hands raised. "Just having a laugh! I''m Cain. Cain Brown. Your new roommate! Please don''t rearrange my face like those other blokes."


    He''s shorter than me by at least a foot, with wild brown curls and a grin that seems permanently stuck to his face.


    "You''re... my roommate?"


    "Yeah! They just assigned me today. Apparently, someone complained about you being alone up here. Something about ''proper supervision'' and ''minimising incidents.''" He flops onto the empty bed. "Lucky you got me instead of some stuck-up prefect, right?"


    I strip off my clothes, hanging them carefully by the door. The routine is familiar¡ªcheck exits, assess threats, and prepare for rest. But tonight there''s an annoying variable.


    "So like, do you sleep standing up? Or upside down like a bat?" Cain bounces on his bed, each spring''s creak setting my teeth on edge. "Oh! Or maybe you do that meditation thing where you hover cross-legged in the air?"


    I ignore him, methodically removing my boots.


    "Because that would be proper wicked. Though probably against school rules. But then again"¡ªhe waves his wooden spoon like a conductor''s baton¡ª"everything fun is against school rules. Did you know we''re not allowed to enchant the toilets? Learned that one the hard way."


    The pillow calls to me, but I need to check the window locks first. As I move across the room, Cain launches into an elaborate tale involving three rubber ducks, a magical mishap, and what he swears was an accidental flooding of the east-wing bathrooms.


    "Oi, you''re not even listening!" He hurls his pillow at my head. I catch it without looking and toss it back.


    "Some of us need sleep."


    "Sleep is for the weak! And the boring. And the... sleepy." He grins. "Which one are you?"


    I pull back my covers, ready to finally rest, when something small and metallic whizzes past my ear. Cain''s already ducking behind his bed before I can retaliate.


    "Just testing your reflexes!" His curly head pops up. "For science, you know?"


    I drop onto my bed with a grunt, turning my back to him. Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he''ll run out of energy.


    "Want to hear a joke about magic? No? Too bad! What did the fire mage say to the water mage? Nothing, they got into a heated argument! Get it? Heated? Because... fire?"


    The silence that follows is blessed but brief.


    "Tough crowd," he mutters. "Maybe something about tattoos instead?"


    My muscles tense.


    "Just kidding! Not touching that topic. Not with a ten-foot enchanted pole. Which, by the way, is also against school rules. Found that out last week..."

 Chapter 5 - Finally.

    The next four days blur together in a haze of monotony and irritation. My new "schedule" is nothing but magical theory and history classes - useless drivel that won''t help me find Camilla.


    "Come on, big guy. Professor Vella''s class has the finest selection of-" Cain wiggles his eyebrows at me from across our dorm room.


    "No." I fold my arms, leaning against the wall.


    "Your loss, mate. That Eliza in the front row? Pure poetry in motion." He clutches his chest dramatically.


    I ignore him and head for the door, but he scrambles after me like an eager puppy. At least he''s stopped trying to "supervise" my every move.


    The corridors are quieter during class hours. We find our usual spot in the garden courtyard, hidden behind a gaudy statue of some long-dead mage.


    "Oi, you two degenerates!" Anja''s voice carries across the yard. She drops down beside us, pulling out a sandwich roughly the size of her head. "Skipping Ancient Runes again?"


    "Mark refuses to appreciate the finer things in life." Cain sprawls on the grass. "Like Elena from Combat Magic 101."


    "Elena?" Anja snorts. "She wouldn''t look twice at your scrawny arse."


    "Wound me, why don''t you?"


    Their banter continues while I try to focus on reviewing the Academy''s layout. But their laughter keeps pulling me back.


    "Remember when Cain tried to impress that third-year by levitating his lunch tray?" Anja wipes tears from her eyes.


    "How was I supposed to know she was allergic to floating food?"


    Even I can''t help the slight twitch of my lips at that one. Their ridiculous stories have become a strange constant in my days here.


    At lunch, we claim an empty table in the far corner of the cafeteria. Other students give us a wide berth - my "incident" with those two idiots made sure of that.


    "I''m just saying," Cain gestures with his fork, "if you attended Practical Enchantment, you''d at least get to see-"


    "If you mention Elena one more time..." Anja threatens him with her massive sandwich.


    "What about Sophia from Theoretical Transmutation?"


    I tune out their discussion of the Academy''s "finest specimens" and focus on my food. The kitchens here are one of the few things I can''t complain about.


    "Gratis to Mark!" Cain waves his hand in front of my face. "You''re missing quality entertainment here."


    "I''m trying to eat."


    "While plotting your grand escape, no doubt." Anja rolls her eyes. "At least the combat classes might be useful for you."


    "If they''d let me fight without magic." I stab at my plate.


    "Oh, speaking of fighting without magic..." Cain leans forward conspiratorially. "Did you hear about the new transfer student in Advanced Defensive Arts? They say she can-"


    "No." I cut him off before he can start another tangent about attractive students.


    Their laughter echoes across the cafeteria. I''ve somehow ended up with two of the most talkative people in this entire Academy as my constant companions. But as I watch them trade increasingly ridiculous stories, I realise it could be worse. At least they don''t treat me like some dangerous tribal curiosity.


    Still, four days of magical classes have taught me nothing useful. My tattoo remains unreliable, and I''m no closer to finding information about Camilla or tracking down Captain Maya. I need to find a way to make this imprisonment work for me.


    <hr>


    The morning sun barely peeks through the Academy''s stained glass windows as Cain and I square off in the training yard. He grips the wooden practice sword like it''s about to bite him.


    "Ready when you are, big guy!" His confident grin doesn''t match his trembling stance.


    I circle him slowly, wooden blade held low. "You said you trained with swords?"


    "Well, technically, I watched a lot of duels. Same thing, right?"


    I close the distance in two steps. One sweep of my practice sword sends him stumbling backwards. His weapon clatters across the cobblestones.


    "Oi, I wasn''t ready!" He scrambles after his sword. "Let''s go again. I''ve got it this time."


    Three more attempts end the same way. His form is nonexistent, and his footwork is worse. The wooden blade feels dead in my hands - nothing like the living energy of my snake knife.


    "Perhaps we should-"


    "One more time!" Cain bounces on his toes. "I think I''ve figured out your pattern."


    "There is no pattern. You''re just terrible."


    "Harsh, mate. But fair." He drops the sword and plops onto a nearby bench. "In my defence, you''re freakishly good at this."


    I toss my practice weapon aside. "I need to find those scholars."


    "The ones who were drooling over your magic tattoo?" Cain perks up. "Professor Morton''s office is in the East Wing, third floor. Can''t miss it - she''s got this massive brass contraption outside her door."


    I pause. "How do you know that?"


    "I know everything about everyone." He grins. "It''s my special talent. That, and my devastating good looks."


    The East Wing corridors are mercifully empty. True to Cain''s word, an elaborate brass device stands guard outside one of the offices. It whirs and clicks as I approach.


    "Enter!" A voice calls before I can knock.


    Professor Morton hunches over a desk covered in strange instruments. Her colleague Professor Kaine stands by a bookshelf, nose buried in an ancient tome.


    "Ah, the tribal warrior returns!" Morton''s eyes light up. "Come to let us study your fascinating markings?"


    "My knife." I plant my feet. "Something about this place affects it. I need to know why."


    "Straight to business." Kaine closes his book. "Fascinating question. The Academy''s wards interact uniquely with different magical signatures."


    "I don''t use magic."


    Morton laughs. "My dear boy, those tattoos are pure magic. Ancient runic patterns, if I''m not mistaken. The transfer of beast essence through symbolic binding..."


    "How do I make it work?"


    "That''s what we''d love to find out." She gestures to a chair covered in brass sensors. "A few simple tests..."


    I turn to leave. This was a waste of time.


    "Wait!" Kaine steps forward. "The training yard''s wards are strongest during class hours. Try early morning or evening. The magical interference should be weaker then."


    I pause at the door. "Why tell me this?"


    "Because," Morton smiles, "you''ll come back when you want to know more. And next time, perhaps you''ll let us run those tests."


    This was great news. I finally got some information regarding my weapon.


    Hopefully, he''s not shy this evening.


    I slouch in my seat at the back of the Mage Combat classroom, watching students practice their stances at the front. Beside me, Cain doodles what appears to be stick figures shooting lightning bolts.


    "The key to magical defence lies in understanding your opponent''s elemental affinity," Professor Blackwood drones on. "Now, can anyone demonstrate-"


    "I''ll show them." A girl with golden hair rises from her seat. Her uniform bears the emblem of House Holloford.


    That''s what I hear Cain mumble loosely.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "Excellent, Miss Alice. Perhaps you could partner with..." Blackwood''s eyes scan the room.


    "Not him." Alice''s lip curls as she points at a trembling first-year. "I refuse to waste my time with someone who can barely conjure a spark."


    The boy shrinks in his chair. Several students shift uncomfortably.


    "I say, that''s rather harsh." A tall young man with aristocratic features speaks up. "Though I suppose House Holloford maintains certain... standards."


    "Indeed, Lord Covington." Alice''s smile doesn''t reach her eyes. "Speaking of standards, how fares your mother''s estate?"


    Covington''s face tightens. Before he can respond, Cain leans over to whisper, "That''s Wentworth Covington. Brilliant mind, but his family''s broke as a joke."


    I grunt, uninterested in noble politics. But Covington''s gaze finds me, studying my exposed forearms with unsettling intensity.


    The class drags on with demonstrations of magical shields and counter-spells. Complete waste of time.


    Later, in Military Tactics, I find myself trapped between the same characters. Covington takes the seat next to mine, much to my annoyance.


    "Those markings, let me see them clearer", he whispers while Professor Hammond explains magical battlefield formations. "The symbolism suggests a fascinating integration of runic principles with beast essence. Have you considered-"


    "No."


    "But the theoretical applications-"


    "Not interested."


    Cain snickers from my other side. "Told you he''s not the chatty type."


    "Unlike some people." Alice turns around in her seat. "Who never seem to shut up."


    "Aw, you noticed me!" Cain clutches his chest. "I''m touched, truly."


    "Notice you?" She scoffs. "It''s impossible not to, given how desperately you try to attract attention."


    "Miss Holloford," Hammond''s voice cuts through. "Perhaps you''d like to explain the strategic advantage of positioning elementalists on elevated ground?"


    Alice straightens, launching into a perfect recitation. I tune out her answer, focusing instead on the setting sun outside. Evening approaches. Soon, I can test what those professors told me about the training yard.


    "Fascinating stuff, isn''t it?" Covington leans closer. "Though I wonder how these tactics might adapt to non-magical combat. Your tribal markings, for instance-"


    "They''re not for study."


    "Everything is worth studying." His eyes gleam. "Knowledge is power, after all. And power..." He glances at Alice, still holding court at the front of the class. "Well, power is everything in this place."


    I stand abruptly as Hammond dismisses us. Cain scrambles to follow, but Covington''s voice stops me at the door.


    "When you''re ready to understand what those marks really mean, come find me. I have some theories that might interest you."


    I leave without responding. The sooner the evening comes, the sooner I can focus on what really matters - getting my knife to work again.


    I settle onto the grassy mound, crossing my legs and steadying my breathing. The evening air carries a hint of autumn chill, but I barely notice it. My focus narrows to the snake tattoo coiling around my forearm.


    "So... we''re just sitting here?" Cain sprawls in the grass beside me, tossing a small rubber ball into the air repeatedly. "Watching you... meditate?"


    I don''t respond. The professors said the wards would be weaker now. I close my eyes, reaching for that familiar connection - the living energy that usually flows between the mark and my will.


    "You could at least tell me what we''re waiting for." The ball makes a soft thump each time it hits his palm. "Is this some tribal thing? Secret warrior meditation? Ooh, are you communing with ancient spirits?"


    "Shut up."


    "Right, right. Silence is golden and all that."


    Minutes stretch into an hour. The sun sinks lower, painting the Academy''s spires in deep orange. Cain has moved on to making shadow puppets against the grass.


    "Look, it''s a dragon! No wait, maybe more of a deformed rabbit..."


    Something shifts beneath my skin. A familiar tingle traces the snake''s outline. My eyes snap open as warmth spreads through the marking.


    "Finally," I breathe.


    The tattoo ripples, black lines swimming across my arm. Energy pulses through the connection - weaker than normal, but present. Real.


    "Whoa." Cain sits up straight. "Your arm is... moving?"


    I reach for the power, willing the snake to manifest. The mark responds sluggishly, but I feel the weapon taking shape.


    Movement catches my eye. We''re not alone anymore. A flash of golden hair behind a nearby column - Alice Holloford, watching with calculated interest. Wentworth Covington stands openly at the edge of the yard, a brass instrument held to his eye.


    Professor Morton and Kaine hover near the entrance, whispering excitedly and taking notes. Even Anja leans against a wall, pretending to tinker with some mechanical device while stealing glances my way.


    "Quite the audience you''ve drawn." Cain waves cheerfully at our observers. "Shall I sell tickets?"


    I ignore them all, focusing on the weapon, trying to form. The knife emerges slowly, edges blurred and unsteady. Not perfect, but it''s a start.


    "That... is properly incredible." Cain leans forward, eyes wide. "Can you do it again? Maybe with some dramatic flair this time?"


    The knife dissolves back into the tattoo. I flex my arm, feeling the renewed connection. It''s not at full strength, but it''s something I can work with.


    I rise to my feet, noting how our audience tenses. Let them watch. Let them wonder. As long as I can use my weapon again, their curiosity means nothing to me.


    <hr>


    I sit cross-legged on my bed, eyes closed, focusing on the snake tattoo. The connection I felt in the training yard yesterday lingers, but weakly¡ªlike trying to hold smoke in my hands. I reach for it again, willing the serpent to stir beneath my skin.


    Nothing.


    "And then I said to him, ''That''s not a dragon, that''s my mother-in-law!''" Cain howls with laughter at his own joke, sprawled across his bed with a notebook full of scribbles. "Get it? Because she breathes fire? No? Tough crowd. I guess I''m the target audience of my jokes."


    I ignore him, tracing the outline of the snake with my finger. The tattoo feels warm to the touch, but stubbornly refuses to respond.


    "What about this one¡ªa mercenary walks into a tavern with a parrot on his shoulder. Bartender says, ''Where''d you get that?'' Parrot says, ''The wilderness, they''re everywhere!''"


    "That doesn''t make sense," I mutter, not looking up.


    "Ah! He speaks!" Cain points triumphantly. "And criticizes my material! That''s progress, my stoic friend. Next, you''ll be laughing, then crying, then sharing your deepest, darkest secrets."


    "Unlikely."


    I close my eyes again, focusing on the memory of power flowing through the mark. The sensation of the knife forming in my hand was solid and deadly. If I can just find that connection again...


    "What about physical comedy?" Cain leaps to his feet, attempting to juggle three apples that he produced from somewhere. "Everyone loves a good¡ª" Two apples collide mid-air and bounce off his forehead. "¡ªpratfall."


    A knock at the door interrupts his performance.


    "Enter at your own risk!" Cain calls out, rubbing his forehead. "Genius comedian at work!"


    Anja pushes the door open, arms loaded with books. "Genius? Where?" She glances around the room. "All I see is an idiot with apple juice in his hair."


    "It''s called commitment to the craft." Cain bows with a flourish.


    Anja drops her stack of books on the floor and plops down beside them. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, funny man."


    I return to my meditation, trying to block them out. The tattoo pulses faintly, responding to my frustration.


    "What are those?" Cain peers at Anja''s books. "''Advanced Combustion Engine Modifications''? ''High-Speed Chassis Dynamics''? Light bedtime reading?"


    "Research." Anja flips open the top book, revealing diagrams covered in her scrawled notes. "There''s a race track on the eastern edge of the city. Students go there on weekends."


    "And you want to... watch?"


    She snorts. "I want to destroy them all." Her eyes gleam with excitement. "The rich kids here think they know speed. They''ve never seen what a properly modified engine can do."


    "You''re insane." Cain sounds impressed.


    "I''m bored." Anja shrugs. "And I need test subjects for my new acceleration formula."


    "Test subjects?" Cain''s voice rises an octave.


    "Passengers." She grins wickedly. "You two are coming with me this weekend."


    "Pass," I mutter, still focused on my tattoo.


    "What''s he doing?" Anja asks Cain, as if I''m not here.


    "Tribal magic thing. Very mysterious. Been at it for hours."


    "It''s not magic," I snap, opening my eyes. "It''s connection."


    They both stare at me, surprised by my outburst.


    "Connection to what?" Anja asks, genuinely curious.


    I don''t answer. How could I explain something I barely understand myself? The bond between the beast''s essence and my own will. The transfer of power through death and rebirth.


    "You''re coming this weekend," Anja declares, turning back to her books. "Both of you. You need to get out of this room before you start talking to the walls."


    "Too late." Cain points at me. "He already has conversations with his arm."


    Their banter continues as I tune them out again. The snake tattoo seems to respond to my irritation, pulsing more strongly now. I latch onto that feeling, feeding it with memories of the knife''s weight in my hand. The perfect balance. The deadly edge.


    Something shifts. The connection snaps into place like a lock clicking. Power surges through the mark, stronger than in the training yard. The snake writhes beneath my skin, no longer just an image but a living thing.


    I extend my arm, palm up, and will the weapon to form.


    The knife materializes in a swirl of dark energy, more substantial than before. Longer. The blade gleams with an obsidian sheen I don''t remember, its edge wickedly sharp. The handle fits my grip perfectly, as if moulded for my hand alone.


    "Holy shit," Cain whispers.


    Anja''s books lie forgotten as they both stare at the weapon.


    "That''s... different," she says carefully.


    I turn the knife, examining it. The familiar weight, but somehow more. As if the weapon has evolved during its dormancy. Darker. Deadlier.


    Mine.


    I study the blade''s new form, rotating it slowly to catch the evening light filtering through our window. The obsidian surface seems to drink in the shadows, making the edge appear even sharper.


    "So..." Cain leans forward on his bed. "Does this mean you can help me chop vegetables for dinner? Because the cafeteria knives are rubbish, and I''ve got this brilliant recipe for-"


    "It''s not a kitchen utensil." I keep my voice flat, but something in my chest tightens at his casual dismissal of the weapon''s significance.


    "Could be, though." Anja picks up one of her books, using it as a pretend cutting board. "Imagine the looks on people''s faces when you pull out a magical snake knife to slice tomatoes."


    "''Oh, this old thing?''" Cain affects a posh accent. "''Just my ancient tribal vegetable chopper. Family heirloom, don''t you know?''"


    They dissolve into laughter, trading increasingly ridiculous scenarios about using my weapon for mundane tasks. I let the knife dissolve back into the tattoo, lying back on my bed and turning away from them.


    "Aw, come on." Cain''s bed creaks as he flops onto it. "We''re just having a laugh."


    "Some things aren''t funny." I close my eyes, feeling the snake''s essence settle beneath my skin.


    "Everything''s funny if you look at it right," he insists, but I hear Anja gathering her books.


    "Let him rest," she says. "We''ve got that history exam tomorrow anyway."


    Their voices fade as sleep pulls me under, the snake tattoo pulsing gently like a second heartbeat.


    A test on Saturday.

 Chapter 6 - Were just young (1)

    "Saturday test? What kind of sadist schedules a test on a weekend?" Cain flops backwards onto his bed, arm draped dramatically over his eyes.


    I grunt in agreement, flipping through my history textbook. The pages blur together¡ªendless dates, names, and territorial disputes that mean nothing to me. My only goal is survival, not memorizing which Duke claimed what land during the Third Border War.


    "It''s because Professor Linley has family visiting," I mutter, recalling the thin-lipped explanation we''d received. "Wants his weekend free."


    "So he ruins ours instead? Brilliant." Cain hurls a balled-up paper at the ceiling. "What do they even expect us to know? The entire history of Gratis?"


    "Just the Seven Territories and major conflicts." I tap the chapter heading. "Focus on Egozia and Jeolara."


    "Easy for you to say. You probably know all this rubbish already."


    I don''t correct him. The truth is, mercenaries don''t care about history¡ªonly who''s paying and who needs killing. Maya taught me to fight, not to recite lineages of pompous nobles.


    Maya¡­.


    <hr>


    The examination hall reeks of anxiety and chalk dust. Students huddle over their papers, scratching furiously. Anja sits three rows ahead, already turning to the second page while I''m still reading the first question.


    Name the major Kingdoms in the Seven Territories of Gratis and their primary resources or characteristics.


    I grip my pencil tighter. This, at least, I know from Maya''s strategic briefings.


    Kingdom of Jeolara (Envy): Steampunk technology, manufacturing


    Grand Duchy of Egozia (Pride): Magic academies, military might


    Territory of Flak (Wrath): Warrior culture, constant internal conflict


    Principality of Guldor (Greed): Wealth, dungeons, mixed technology


    Grand Duchy of Slumbra (Sloth): Unknown, isolationists


    Thearcy of Haven (Lust): Entertainment, limited military power


    Thearcy of Glutthar (Gluttony): Resource-depleted, barren


    The next questions grow increasingly specific. I scratch answers where I can and leave blanks where I can''t. Halfway through, I notice Cain''s eyes darting to my paper. I shift slightly, giving him a better view. Not out of kindness¡ªI simply don''t care.


    Two hours later, we spill into the corridor, drained and irritable.


    "That was brutal," Cain moans, slouching against the wall.


    Anja approaches, looking infuriatingly fresh. "I found it quite straightforward, actually."


    "Of course you did," Cain rolls his eyes. "You probably knew the exact date the first Egozian Duke decided to wear purple instead of blue."


    "1423, actually," she replies with a smirk. "During the Chromatic Revolution. How''d you two manage?"


    I shrug. "Passable."


    "I copied half his answers," Cain jerks a thumb at me. "So I''m either brilliant or doomed, depending on how tribal boy here performed."


    "Fifty-fifty," I estimate. The tribal history I know isn''t the kind they teach in academies.


    "Splendid!" Wentworth''s voice cuts through our conversation as he approaches, clutching a leather satchel. "I see you have all completed Professor Linley''s examination. I found the section on territorial expansion particularly fascinating, did you not?"


    Anja and Cain exchange glances.


    "Yeah, riveting stuff," Cain deadpans. "I especially loved the part where I wanted to stab myself with my pencil."


    "Self-harm is no joking matter," Wentworth frowns, missing the sarcasm entirely. "Though I suppose the stress of examinations can¡ª"


    "We''re going to the races," Anja interrupts. "Eastern track. You know it?"


    Wentworth blinks rapidly. "The unauthorized vehicular competitions? Those are strictly against Academy regulations and¡ª"


    "Great, you''re not invited then," Cain says cheerfully. "Wouldn''t want to corrupt you."


    "I was not seeking an invitation," Wentworth huffs. "I merely wished to point out¡ª"


    "Race track. One hour," Anja says, already walking away. "Bring something to hold your stomach in."


    <hr>


    The eastern track is nothing like I expected. Hidden behind abandoned warehouses, it''s a sprawling dirt oval surrounded by makeshift stands filled with cheering spectators. The air smells of oil, smoke, and something chemical I can''t identify.


    Anja leads us to a canvas tent where her "baby" waits.


    "What in seven hells is that?" Cain steps back, eyes wide.


    Before us sits a monstrous contraption¡ªpart motorcycle, part carriage, with exposed gears and pipes hissing steam. Three seats are welded to a frame that looks cobbled together from scrap metal. The wheels are massive, studded with metal cleats.


    "This," Anja runs her hand lovingly along a copper pipe, "is the Jeolaran Vengeance. Zero to deadly in six seconds."


    "You built this?" I ask, genuinely impressed despite myself.


    "Every bolt and gear." Her eyes gleam with pride. "Now, who wants the first ride?"


    I examine the contraption with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant admiration. The craftsmanship is impressive, even to my untrained eye.


    "When did you find time to build this?" I ask, running my fingers along the frame''s welded joints. "We''ve been in classes all week."


    Anja grins, reaching into what appears to be a storage compartment beneath the driver''s seat. She pulls out a wrapped bundle and unfolds it to reveal several pastries.


    "There''s always time," she says, biting into a meat pie with obvious relish. "Especially after midnight. The engineering workshop has terrible security."


    She offers me a pastry, which I decline with a shake of my head. Nothing surprises me about Anja anymore.


    Cain, however, gapes at her. "You''ve been sneaking out? Building this death machine? While I''ve been drooling on my textbooks?"


    "Your priorities," Anja shrugs, talking through a mouthful of food, "are clearly misaligned."


    "Bloody hell," Cain mutters, circling the vehicle with newfound wariness. "This thing looks like it could disintegrate at any moment."


    "Only if you hit something solid," Anja replies cheerfully, wiping grease from her fingers. "Now, who''s first?"


    Cain takes an immediate step back, wincing theatrically. "Oh, my back. Terrible pain. Must''ve pulled something during that test. Mental strain, you know."


    He claps a hand on my shoulder. "But Mark here¡ªhe''s perfect! Strong, fearless, practically indestructible. Tribal warrior and all that. Right, mate?"


    I narrow my eyes at him, but find myself considering the offer. The mercenary life taught me to assess risks quickly, but it never allowed for... this. Whatever this is.


    "What''s it like?" I ask Anja, who''s already strapping herself into the driver''s position.


    "Like flying," she says, her eyes bright with anticipation. "Like being hunted by a predator, except you''re faster. It''s life, Mark. Compressed into moments."


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Something in her words resonates with me. All my existence has been about survival, revenge, and moving forward without truly living. I''ve never chased a feeling simply because it might be worth experiencing.


    "I''ll go," I decide, stepping toward the passenger seat.


    Anja''s smile widens. "Excellent! Cain, you''re in the back."


    "What? No!" Cain protests, backing away. "I just told you¡ª"


    "Your back pain is imaginary," Anja cuts him off, "and I need weight distribution."


    Before Cain can escape, I grab his arm and haul him toward the third seat. He struggles half-heartedly as Anja tosses me a set of leather straps.


    "Make sure they''re tight," she instructs as I secure Cain to his seat. "If he falls out, the Academy will make us fill out paperwork."


    "This is abduction!" Cain yelps as I cinch the final strap. "I''m being kidnapped by my own friends!"


    "We''re not friends," I remind him, though the words lack their usual edge.


    "Helmets," Anja announces, tossing leather caps with goggles attached. I pull mine on, barely fitting¡ªwhile Cain continues his protests.


    Anja flips switches and turns valves. The machine shudders beneath us, belching steam from exhaust pipes. The vibration travels up my spine and settles in my chest like a second heartbeat.


    "Ready?" she shouts over the growing roar.


    I nod. Cain whimpers.


    She pulls a lever, and the world explodes into motion.


    The force slams me back against my seat. Wind tears at my face despite the goggles. The track becomes a blur of brown and grey, punctuated by flashes of colour from the spectators.


    Anja howls with laughter as she takes a turn, the vehicle tilting so far I''m certain we''ll flip. Somehow, we don''t. Mud sprays in our wake. Cain''s screams become a continuous, high-pitched wail.


    And I¡ª


    I feel something unfamiliar bloom in my chest. Not fear. Not rage. Something lighter, brighter. My lips pull back in what might be a smile.


    For these moments, hurtling around a dirt track in a contraption that defies both logic and safety, I''m not thinking about vengeance or survival or the dead. I''m simply... here. Present. Alive.


    I understand, suddenly, what Anja chases.


    We rocket down the straightaway, the Jeolaran Vengeance''s engine screaming like a wounded beast. Anja''s hands move across the controls with practised precision, adjusting valves and levers I couldn''t begin to understand. The vibration travels through my bones, rattling my teeth, but I don''t care. This feeling¡ªthis rush¡ªis unlike anything I''ve experienced.


    I glance back at Cain. His head lolls against the restraints, mouth slack. Passed out cold.


    "We lost Cain!" I shout over the roar.


    Anja cackles, not bothering to look. "Lightweight! More fun for us!"


    Ahead, five or six other vehicles spread across the track¡ªsleek, polished contraptions with brass fittings and ornate detailing. Academy students with money to burn.


    "Watch this," Anja yells, cranking a lever that sends a fresh burst of steam hissing from the pipes.


    We surge forward, closing in on a gleaming silver machine with decorative wings welded to its sides. The driver, a thin boy with goggles too large for his face, notices us approaching and tries to accelerate.


    Anja swings wide, then cuts inside as we approach the curve. "Nice ornaments, Belmont!" she shouts as we pull alongside. "Shame they don''t make you any faster! Maybe Daddy can buy you some actual talent next time!"


    The boy''s face contorts with rage, but we''re already past him, leaving him choking on our dust.


    My heart hammers against my ribs. I should be worried about Academy rules, about drawing attention, about a hundred different things¡ªbut all I feel is the wind against my face and an unfamiliar lightness in my chest.


    We approach a bright red vehicle that sputters black smoke. Two riders¡ªdriver and passenger¡ªboth wearing matching crimson scarves.


    "Coming through, Bachilds!" Anja shouts, swerving dangerously close. "That''s what happens when you spend more on your outfits than your engine! Maybe sell one of those fancy scarves and buy some decent fuel!"


    The passenger makes an obscene gesture as we pull ahead.


    "Did they teach you that at etiquette class?" Anja laughs, returning the gesture with enthusiasm.


    Three more vehicles ahead¡ªa sleek black one, a bulky green monstrosity, and a brass-plated machine that seems to be having trouble maintaining speed.


    Anja bears down on the green one first. "Move your rolling greenhouse, Gardener! Plants grow faster than you drive!"


    The driver¡ªa stocky girl with braided hair¡ªshouts something back that''s lost in the wind. Doesn''t matter. We''re already pulling past the black vehicle.


    "Nice paint job, Morrington! Matches your personality¡ªdull and overpriced!"


    I find myself laughing. Not the bitter laugh I''ve grown accustomed to, but something genuine that bubbles up from somewhere long buried.


    The brass-plated vehicle is our final obstacle. It weaves erratically, blocking our path.


    "Amateur hour!" Anja shouts, feinting left before cutting sharply right. "Your daddy''s money can''t buy skill, Covington!"


    Wait¡ªCovington?


    I catch a glimpse of Wentworth''s horrified face as we thunder past. His mouth forms a perfect ''O'' of shock, his carefully styled hair now a windswept disaster.


    "Wasn''t he¡ª" I begin.


    "Not invited!" Anja finishes, cackling with glee. "But the rich ones always think rules don''t apply to them!"


    We''ve cleared the pack now, nothing but open track ahead. Anja pushes the Vengeance harder, the needle on the pressure gauge edging into the red zone. The finish line approaches¡ªalong with what appears to be the longest stopping area I''ve ever seen, littered with hay bales and sand pits.


    "Anja," I warn, eyeing the rapidly approaching end. "Anja!"


    She waits until the last possible moment before yanking back on the brake lever. The Vengeance screams in protest, wheels locking, sending us into a sideways skid that tears through the first sand pit, then the second. We plough through a hay bale, straw exploding around us like shrapnel.


    Finally, mercifully, we stop¡ªmere inches from the final barrier.


    Silence falls as the engine ticks and cools. My knuckles are white where I''ve gripped the frame. My heart feels like it might burst from my chest.


    Anja turns to me, face split with the widest grin I''ve ever seen. "So? What did you think?"


    I should be angry. Should be lecturing her about risks and exposure and a dozen other rational concerns. Instead, I hear myself say:


    "When can we go again?"


    I haul Cain''s limp form off the back of the Vengeance, his head lolling against my shoulder. His face is pale as chalk, mouth hanging open like a dead fish.


    "Is he breathing?" Anja asks, not sounding particularly concerned.


    I check. "Unfortunately."


    She grins, pulling off her driving gloves. "Splash some water on him. There''s a pump over by the maintenance tent."


    Two buckets of cold water later, Cain sputters back to consciousness, coughing and flailing like a drowning cat.


    "What¡ªwhere¡ª" His eyes focus on me, then Anja, then the Vengeance. "Oh no. It wasn''t a nightmare."


    "Rise and shine, lightweight," Anja says, tossing him a rag to dry his face. "You missed all the fun."


    "I think I''m going to be sick," Cain groans, doubling over.


    "Not on my boots," I warn, stepping back.


    After Cain finishes retching behind a stack of tyres, Anja announces she''s starving. "Nothing builds an appetite like leaving the competition in the dust," she says, patting her stomach. "I know a place nearby. Best grease-soaked food in the district."


    I notice Wentworth hovering at the edge of the track, his brass-plated contraption now parked haphazardly among the other vehicles. His normally immaculate appearance is dishevelled¡ªhair windblown, face smudged with oil, expensive clothes covered in dust.


    "Mark!" he calls, hurrying over with an awkward gait. "What a surprise to encounter you here! I had no idea you possessed an interest in vehicular competitions."


    "I don''t," I reply flatly.


    "He was just leaving," Anja adds, grabbing my arm. "We all were."


    Wentworth falls into step beside us as we head toward the exit. "I must say, your friend''s driving technique is most unorthodox. Effective, certainly, but with several clear violations of standard racing protocols."


    "There are protocols for illegal racing?" Cain asks, still looking slightly green.


    "Well, not officially documented, of course, but gentlemen''s agreements exist among¡ª"


    "We''re going to eat," I cut him off.


    His face brightens. "Splendid! I could certainly partake in refreshment after such exhilaration."


    "You''re not invited," Anja says bluntly.


    Wentworth''s smile falters. "I... see. However, Mark, if I might have just a moment of your time? Those markings of yours¡ªI''ve been researching similar phenomena and believe I may have discovered some relevant historical precedents that could¡ª"


    "No," I say, turning away.


    "But¡ª"


    "Piss off, fancy pants," Anja snaps. "Can''t you see he''s not interested?"


    We leave Wentworth standing there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.


    <hr>


    The "Crankshaft Caf¨¦" looks like it might collapse if someone sneezes too hard. Nestled between a scrapyard and what appears to be an illegal chop shop, it''s exactly the kind of place no self-respecting Academy student would enter. Which is precisely why Anja chose it.


    "Trust me," she says as we push through the oil-stained door. "Best damn meat pies in the city."


    The interior is dimly lit by gas lamps with soot-blackened chimneys. Every surface gleams with a thin layer of grease. The patrons¡ªmostly mechanics and factory workers¡ªgive us curious glances before returning to their food and conversations.


    We settle at a wobbly table near the back. Cain immediately starts fidgeting with the cutlery, balancing a fork on the edge of a knife.


    "Watch this," he says, spinning a spoon on his fingertip. "Learned it in detention last year."


    I ignore him, scanning the room for exits out of habit. Two doors, and three windows, all easily accessible. Good.


    "Damn it," Anja mutters, nodding toward the entrance. "Look who couldn''t take a hint."


    Wentworth stands in the doorway, looking horrifically out of place in his expensive clothes. The caf¨¦ falls silent as he picks his way through the tables toward us.


    "I apologize for the intrusion," he says, standing awkwardly beside our table. "But I simply must insist on a brief conversation regarding your unique condition, Mark. The academic implications alone¡ª"


    "Sit down," I finally say, tired of his hovering. "Order something. Stop talking about my ''condition.''"


    Relief washes over his face as he pulls up a chair. "Most gracious of you. I shall endeavour to be discreet."


    Anja rolls her eyes but signals the server.


    While we wait for our food, Cain continues his impromptu performance, stacking utensils into increasingly precarious towers. "In Jeolara," he explains, "street performers make good money doing this stuff. Better than studying, that''s for sure."


    The food arrives¡ªenormous meat pies swimming in gravy, served on chipped plates. Wentworth stares at his portion with thinly veiled horror.


    "The, ah, culinary presentation is certainly... rustic," he manages.


    "Shut up and eat," Anja says, already halfway through hers.


    As we finish our meal, Cain stands dramatically. "Ladies and gentlemen¡ªand Wentworth¡ªfor my final trick, I shall remove the tablecloth without disturbing a single dish!"


    "Cain, don''t¡ª" I start, but he''s already gripping the edge of the cloth.


    "Observe!" he announces, giving a sharp tug.


    The cloth catches on something¡ªprobably the rough edge of my plate¡ªand instead of sliding free, it yanks everything forward. Plates, glasses, and leftover food crash to the floor in a spectacular mess.


    The caf¨¦ falls silent. The owner¡ªa mountain of a man with tattoos covering his massive arms¡ªemerges from the kitchen, face darkening like a thundercloud.


    I look up just in time to see Anja and Cain bolting for the door.


    "Sorry!" Cain calls over his shoulder. "Mark''s got this! He''s good for it!"


    They vanish into the street, leaving me alone with Wentworth and the approaching owner, whose knuckles are cracking ominously as he flexes his hands.


    Wentworth swallows audibly. "I don''t suppose you have a contingency plan for this scenario?"


    Those fuckers.

 Chapter 7 - Were just young (2)

    The owner looms over our table, his shadow swallowing what little light remains. My muscles tense instinctively¡ªI 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¡ªI''ll always run toward that¡ªbut from normal human interaction.


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


    "They''re not my¡ª" 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¡ªjust 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¡ª" 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¡ª"


    "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¡ª"


    I stand up. "We''re done."


    "But¡ª"


    "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 caf¨¦ 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¡ªsomething 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¡ªthe survivor¡ªbristles 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¡ªonto 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¡ªthe part shaped by eleven years of mercenary training¡ªwants 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¡ªnot 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¡ªthey''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¡ª" Anja starts.


    "Yo, we got plans brewing¡ª" 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¡ªa 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¡ªas chaotic and pointless as they seem¡ªhave 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 caf¨¦ disaster."


    A thought surfaces¡ªunexpected 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 caf¨¦ 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¡ªWentworth 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¡ªa real one, unlike Wentworth''s counterfeits¡ªand 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¡ªpaper.


    "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¡ªthe 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¡ª"


    "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¡ªthree 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.

 Chapter 8 - Now this is fun (1)

    Sunday morning arrives with the dull grey light of Egozia filtering through my window. I sit on the edge of my bed, watching Cain pace anxiously around our room, muttering to himself.


    "This is impossible," he groans, running his hands through his brown curls for the twentieth time. "They''ll never let me in. The Rusty Spigot is legendary for its security."


    "You''re overthinking it," I say, pulling on my boots. "We''ll figure something out."


    "Easy for you to say! You''re built like a mountain with the face to match." He gestures wildly at me. "I look like someone''s baby brother who wandered off during a family outing."


    I can''t argue with that assessment. Cain''s youthful appearance has always been a liability for him in places that require a certain age.


    "Maybe we should just go to the blimps," he sighs, deflating onto his bed.


    "Too late. We''re committed now."


    A sharp knock at our door announces Anja''s arrival. She bursts in without waiting for an answer, dressed in her usual mix of practical and provocative¡ªleather pants and a fitted jacket that somehow manages to look both utilitarian and dangerous.


    "Ready for some proper entertainment?" she asks, eyes bright with anticipation.


    "Cain''s having a crisis," I explain, nodding toward my despondent roommate.


    "They''ll never let me in," he moans. "I''m too young-looking."


    Anja shrugs. "We''ll need Wentworth''s help then. He''s good with... creative solutions."


    I raise an eyebrow. "You''re suggesting we rely on Covington?"


    "Unless you''ve got a better idea?" She challenges.


    I don''t, so we head to Wentworth''s room. His quarters are in the east wing, where the more privileged students reside. When we arrive, Anja knocks firmly on his door.


    "One moment!" Wentworth''s muffled voice calls from inside.


    I peer through the narrow slit in his partially open door and freeze. The room beyond is chaos incarnate¡ªa madman''s laboratory. Books stacked in precarious towers. Strange brass and copper contraptions litter every surface. Glass tubes bubble with coloured liquids. Diagrams and schematics cover the walls, some pinned haphazardly over others.


    "Bloody hell," I mutter.


    Wentworth appears in the doorway, hair dishevelled, wearing a stained waistcoat with what appears to be burn marks on one sleeve.


    "Ah, punctual as expected!" he exclaims, as if he hadn''t kept us waiting. "Do forgive the delay. I was finalizing a particularly troublesome calibration on my latest project."


    "We need your help," Anja says, pushing past pleasantries. "Cain needs to look older to get into the Spigot."


    Wentworth''s eyes light up with interest. "A challenge of perception manipulation! How fortuitous¡ªI''ve been experimenting with light refraction and minor illusory techniques that might prove applicable."


    "In normal words?" Cain asks hopefully.


    "I can make you look older," Wentworth translates, ushering us inside his chaotic domain. "Give me thirty minutes."


    <hr>


    True to his word, half an hour later we''re walking through Egozia''s lower districts with Cain sporting what Wentworth calls a "Physiognomic Alteration Device"¡ªa thin metal band around his neck, nearly invisible under his collar, projecting subtle changes to his facial features.


    "It creates the impression of maturity through shadow manipulation and minor dermal tension simulation," Wentworth explains proudly as we navigate the narrow streets.


    "It itches," Cain complains, fighting the urge to scratch at it.


    The Rusty Spigot is located in an unassuming building with no sign, just a burly doorman checking people before they enter. The line stretches around the corner, filled with rough-looking characters eager for violence.


    When we reach the front, the doorman gives me a once-over and nods appreciatively at my size. "Fighter or spectator?"


    "Spectator," I answer. No need to draw unnecessary attention.


    He waves me through, then looks at Anja with open admiration. "You''re welcome anytime, darling."


    Anja flashes a dangerous smile and follows me in.


    Wentworth steps up next, standing tall with his aristocratic bearing. The doorman hesitates, clearly suspicious of his refined appearance, but eventually lets him pass after Wentworth slips him something shiny.


    Cain approaches last, visibly nervous. The doorman narrows his eyes, studying him closely.


    "Age?" he demands.


    "Twenty-one," Cain replies, his voice cracking slightly.


    The doorman leans closer, scrutinizing Cain''s face. I tense, ready to intervene if necessary.


    The doorman squints at Cain, tilting his head slightly.


    "Something ain''t right with your face, boy," he says, leaning in closer. "Looks like someone stretched your skin over a different skull."


    My hand drifts toward my concealed knife, but the doorman suddenly bursts into laughter.


    "Whatever you''re using, I''ve seen worse fakes. At least yours doesn''t melt in the heat." He steps aside with a dismissive wave. "Go on in before I change my mind."


    Cain practically sprints past him, and I follow, exhaling slowly. One less complication to deal with.


    Inside, the Rusty Spigot reveals itself as a cavernous warehouse converted into a fighting arena. The space centres around a sunken pit surrounded by tiered seating filled with rowdy spectators. The air hangs heavy with sweat, spilt alcohol, and the metallic tang of blood.


    Two massive men occupy the pit, circling each other like feral animals. One sports a mohawk and metal studs embedded in his face; the other has arms thick as tree trunks covered in crude tattoos. Blotchy images meant to intimidate.


    "Those aren''t fighters, they''re brawlers," I mutter, watching their clumsy movements. "No technique, just brute force."


    Mohawk throws a wild haymaker that Tree-arms easily dodges before countering with a sloppy uppercut that connects with his opponent''s jaw. Blood sprays across the dirt floor as the crowd roars.


    "Look at that form!" Cain shouts beside me, getting into the spirit. "My gran could dodge better, and she''s been dead for six years!"


    Anja snorts with laughter. "The big one''s got the footwork of a three-legged bull. Bet you five silvers he goes down in the next minute."


    "I shall not engage in such crude wagering," Wentworth says primly, then immediately contradicts himself. "However, if I were to participate, I would counter with the observation that the larger combatant possesses superior mass and reach."


    Tree-arms lands another blow, sending Mohawk staggering.


    "Ten silvers says he''s finished," Anja calls out, grinning wildly.


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    "You are witnessing the application of basic physics," Wentworth replies, pinching his nose. "Though I must inquire¡ªis the stench always this pungent? It appears someone has combined the worst elements of a brewery, a tannery, and an unwashed regiment."


    I scan the crowd while they banter, mapping exits and potential threats. Old habits die hard. The audience is a mix of dock workers, factory labourers, and the occasional well-dressed patron slumming for entertainment. No Academy uniforms in sight, which is a relief.


    Below, Mohawk manages a desperate lunge, tackling Tree-arms to the ground. They roll in the dirt, exchanging blows that would shatter lesser men''s bones.


    "What a sloppy guard," I comment, unable to help myself. "Captain Maya would have them running drills until their arms fell off."


    "Oh, look who''s suddenly the fighting expert," Cain teases, elbowing me in the ribs. "You gonna show them how it''s done, big man?"


    "I could," I say flatly.


    Anja gives me a measuring look. "You know, that''s not a bad idea. Prize money''s decent."


    "Absolutely not," Wentworth interjects. "Mark cannot risk exposure. The Academy¡ª"


    "Won''t know unless someone tells them," Anja cuts him off with a pointed stare.


    The fight below reaches its conclusion as Tree-arms pins Mohawk, raining down blows until his opponent goes limp. The crowd erupts in a mixture of cheers and boos as money changes hands.


    A stocky woman with a megaphone steps into the pit, raising Tree-arms'' hand in victory while two assistants drag Mohawk''s unconscious form away.


    "Next bout in fifteen minutes!" she announces. "Any challengers for our champion? Double purse for anyone who can last three rounds!"


    "Well?" Anja looks at me expectantly.


    "Three rounds, is that it?" I mutter, watching the champion parade around the pit with his arms raised. The crowd''s roar washes over me, and something stirs in my chest. Not excitement¡ªcalculation.


    This brute relies on strength alone. No technique, no discipline, just raw power and intimidation. Against someone with actual training? He wouldn''t last one round.


    "I''m going in," I decide, already moving toward the stairs leading down to the registration table.


    Cain grabs my arm. "Whoa, seriously? What about keeping a low profile?"


    "No one from the Academy comes here," I reply, shaking him off. "And I could use the money."


    Anja falls into step beside me, grinning. "Now we''re talking! I''ll handle your corner."


    "I strongly advise against this course of action," Wentworth protests, hurrying after us. "The risk of injury alone¡ª"


    "He''ll be fine," Anja cuts him off. "You haven''t seen him fight."


    We reach the registration table, where a bored woman with facial scars takes down my details. She barely glances at the false name I give her.


    "Entry fee''s two silvers," she drones. "Sign here acknowledging we''re not responsible for permanent injuries or death."


    I hand over the coins and scrawl my signature on her form.


    "Changing area''s through there," she points to a curtained alcove. "You''re up in ten minutes."


    The changing area is a little more than a dirty corner sectioned off with tattered fabric. The floor is stained with substances I''d rather not identify. Several other fighters are preparing¡ªwrapping hands, stretching, or simply staring at the wall with vacant expressions.


    I realise I need to change quickly. The only clothes I have are my old ones¡ªworn leather pants and a faded shirt that''s seen better days. I really should buy different clothes soon.


    "Need help?" Anja asks, appearing beside me.


    "Just watch my back," I reply, pulling my shirt over my head.


    The cool air hits my skin, and I hear a low whistle from somewhere behind me. I ignore it, focusing on the task at hand. Years of mercenary training have sculpted my body into a weapon¡ªbroad shoulders, defined muscles, and a collection of scars that tell their own stories.


    But it''s the tattoo that draws attention. The serpent coils across my chest, its scales seeming to shift in the dim light. Even without calling my weapon, the mark itself commands respect.


    "That''s quite the decoration," a fighter nearby comments, eyeing my tattoo. "Custom work?"


    I don''t answer, just fix him with a stare until he looks away.


    Cain slips through the curtain, carrying a small flask. "Liquid courage?" he offers.


    "I don''t need it," I reply, rolling my shoulders to loosen them.


    "Your opponent is Drax," Anja informs me, peering through a gap in the curtain. "Three hundred pounds of muscle and bad attitude. Favours his right side and telegraphs his hooks."


    I raise an eyebrow at her assessment.


    She shrugs. "I watch fights. Sue me."


    Wentworth joins us, looking thoroughly uncomfortable in these surroundings. "I''ve calculated the odds based on visible musculature and previous performance metrics. Your chances are¡ª"


    "I don''t care about odds," I cut him off, stretching my arms across my chest. "Just hold my shirt."


    I hand him my clothing, standing now in just my worn leather pants. The snake tattoo seems more vivid under the harsh lighting, almost alive against my skin.


    "Next fighter!" a voice calls from beyond the curtain.


    I crack my neck, feeling a familiar calm settle over me. This isn''t about the crowd or the money. This is what I know¡ªcombat, pure and simple.


    "Try not to kill him," Anja says, only half-joking.


    I nod once and step through the curtain.


    The crowd''s reaction is immediate¡ªa mixture of jeers, whistles, and muttered comments about the snake on my chest. I ignore them all, eyes fixed on my opponent. Drax is massive, his skin glistening with oil and sweat, his face twisted in a permanent snarl.


    As I step into the pit, the dirt cool beneath my bare feet, I feel strangely at home. This, at least, makes sense to me.


    I am as ready as possible.


    The announcer''s voice booms across the pit. "In the challenger''s corner, we have... The Snake!"


    My name may need work.


    The crowd''s reaction is mixed¡ªsome cheering at fresh meat, others booing the newcomer. I don''t care either way. My focus narrows to Drax, cataloguing every detail. His stance is wide, weight is distributed unevenly. He favours his right leg slightly. His knuckles are swollen from repeated impacts without proper technique.


    "You''re dead, pretty boy," he snarls, spitting on the ground between us.


    I don''t respond. Words are wasted energy.


    The announcer raises her hand. "Three rounds or knockout! No weapons, no eye gouging, everything else goes!" She drops her arm. "Fight!"


    The bell clangs, and Drax charges immediately, exactly as I expected. Predictable. Amateur.


    Time slows as my mercenary training kicks in. I have options:


    Option one: Slip his first punch, counter with a cross followed by an uppercut. His poor balance means he''ll drop easily, then I can finish him on the ground.


    Option two: Establish range with jabs, frustrate him, make him overcommit, and then counter when he''s exposed.


    But there''s a third option. The snake tattoo on my chest seems to pulse against my skin. I''ve noticed subtle changes when it''s active¡ªheightened reflexes and increased strength. But what about when it remains dormant? Could the essence still influence my physical abilities?


    Combat is the perfect testing ground.


    I choose option two with a twist. As Drax barrels toward me, I focus on the tattoo, not to summon my weapon but to channel its essence through my body. I feel a strange warmth spreading from my chest down my arms.


    Drax throws a wild haymaker. I slip it easily, the movement feeling unnaturally fluid, and snap out a quick jab that catches him on the nose. Not enough power to break it, just testing.


    He grunts, momentarily stunned by the speed. Blood trickles from his nostril.


    "Lucky shot," he growls, circling more cautiously now.


    I feel different. My movements are more precise, reactions are sharper. The tattoo isn''t just a weapon storage¡ªit''s changing how my body responds.


    Drax feints left, then throws a right hook. I weave under it and deliver two rapid jabs to his ribs. The impact reverberates up my arm, but there''s something else¡ªa sensation like electricity flowing through my muscles.


    The crowd roars as Drax staggers back. I press forward, maintaining perfect distance, landing three more jabs that snap his head back. Each connection feels enhanced, as if the snake''s essence is flowing through my strikes.


    "Stand and fight, coward!" Drax bellows, frustrated by my movement.


    I oblige him, planting my feet. He grins, thinking he''s got me, and launches a powerful straight right. Instead of dodging, I channel everything into my core, feeling the tattoo pulse once, and meet his punch with a perfectly timed cross-counter.


    The impact is devastating. My fist connects with his jaw with a sickening crack. Drax''s eyes roll back as he crumples into the dirt like a felled tree.


    Silence falls over the arena, then erupts into chaos. The fight lasted less than thirty seconds.


    The announcer rushes in, checking Drax''s unconscious form before raising my hand. "Winner by knockout... The Snake!"


    As the crowd''s reaction washes over me, I look down at my hands. They appear normal, but they don''t feel normal. The snake tattoo seems to settle back into my skin, its work done.


    I''ve discovered something valuable. The tattoo''s power isn''t binary¡ªactive only when the weapon is drawn. It''s a spectrum, with different levels of enhancement available if I learn to control it properly.


    Anja rushes into the pit, followed by Cain and a reluctant Wentworth.


    "That was bloody brilliant!" Cain shouts, jumping around me. "One punch! Just one!"


    Anja studies my face with narrowed eyes. "You did something different," she says quietly, so only I can hear. "With the tattoo?"


    I nod slightly. "It''s not just a weapon. It''s changing me."


    I''ve barely caught my breath when the announcer''s voice cuts through the cheering crowd.


    "Ladies and gentlemen! It seems our new challenger has made quite the impression!"


    Anja hands me a cloth to wipe the sweat from my face. I scan the crowd, noticing several men pushing their way toward the registration table, eyes fixed on me with predatory interest. Fresh challengers looking to test themselves against the newcomer who just demolished the champion.


    "You''ve got admirers," Anja says, nodding toward them.


    "Bloody hell, that was fast," Cain says, bouncing on his toes with excitement. "One punch and the big lug went down like a sack of potatoes!"


    Wentworth examines my hand with scientific curiosity. "Fascinating. The impact should have caused significant metacarpal damage, yet there''s barely any swelling."


    I pull my hand away, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. "It''s nothing."


    The announcer approaches us, a calculating smile on her face. "The crowd wants more. Two fighters have already paid their entry fee to challenge you."


    "Back-to-back fights?" I ask, rolling my shoulders. I''m barely winded from the first bout.


    "Actually..." The announcer''s smile widens. "They''re offering double the prize money for a special match. Both of them against you, simultaneously."


    Before I can respond, Cain jumps in. "He''ll take it! My boy here eats two-on-ones for breakfast!"


    "Cain," I growl in warning.


    But Anja''s already nodding enthusiastically. "Double the prize money? Absolutely, he''ll do it."


    "I must protest," Wentworth interjects. "The statistical probability of¡ª"


    "Done," I cut him off. The truth is, I''m curious to test my limits with this new understanding of my tattoo''s influence.

 Chapter 9 - Now this is fun (2)

    "Done," I cut him off. The truth is, I''m curious to test my limits with this new understanding of my tattoo''s influence.


    The announcer beams. "Excellent! Five-minute break, then we''re back on!"


    As she walks away, I glare at Cain and Anja. "You two need to stop volunteering me for things."


    "Oh, come on," Anja scoffs. "I saw how you handled that mountain of muscle. Two average-sized fighters will be child''s play for you."


    I glance toward my new opponents at the edge of the pit. One is lean and wiry with quick, nervous movements. The other is stockier, with a shaved head and a nose that''s been broken multiple times. Both look experienced¡ªnot brawlers like Drax, but actual fighters.


    "They''re coordinated," I observe. "They''ve fought together before."


    "So what''s the plan?" Cain asks, rubbing his hands together eagerly.


    I take a deep breath, focusing on the snake tattoo. It feels warm against my skin, responsive to my attention. "I need to keep them separated. If they can flank me, I''m finished."


    "Use the pit to your advantage," Anja suggests. "The ground''s uneven near the edges."


    The bell rings, signalling the fighters to take their positions. I hand the cloth back to Anja and step forward.


    "Don''t die," Cain calls after me cheerfully.


    "Your concern is touching," I mutter.


    The two fighters enter from opposite sides of the pit. Wiry circles left while Broken-Nose circles right. Their movements confirm my suspicion¡ªthey''ve trained together.


    The announcer raises her hand. "Special match! Two against one! Same rules apply!" She drops her arm. "Fight!"


    They attack immediately, perfectly synchronized. Wiry feints forward while Broken-Nose charges from my right. It''s a basic pincer movement, designed to force me to commit to one direction.


    Instead of choosing, I stand my ground, channelling focus into my tattoo. The warmth spreads through my chest, down my arms, and into my legs. Time seems to slow slightly.


    Broken-Nose reaches me first, throwing a heavy right hook. I slip inside his guard¡ªa move Captain Maya drilled into me countless times¡ªand drive my elbow into his solar plexus. As he gasps for air, I pivot sharply, using his momentum to shove him directly into Wiry''s path.


    They collide awkwardly, buying me precious seconds to reposition.


    "Keep them colliding!" Anja shouts from the sidelines.


    I circle the edge of the pit, forcing them to adjust their approach. They recover quickly, spreading out to cut off my movement. These two are definitely experienced.


    Wiry attacks next, throwing a lightning-fast combination. I block the first two punches, feeling the impact reverberate through my forearms, then deliberately give ground. He presses forward eagerly¡ªexactly what I wanted.


    I suddenly plant my lead foot and throw a feint at his face. When he raises his guard, I change levels and drive forward with a powerful takedown, lifting him completely off his feet.


    The crowd roars as I slam him into the dirt, but I can''t follow up. Broken-Nose is already closing in from behind. I roll away just as his boot stomps where my head was a moment ago.


    Back on my feet, I feel the snake''s essence flowing more freely now, responding to the increased danger. My strikes feel sharper, more precise, as if the tattoo is guiding my movements.


    Wiry scrambles up, dirt covering his back. Both fighters approach more cautiously now, having felt my strength firsthand.


    "You fight like a soldier," Broken-Nose calls out, circling warily.


    I don''t respond. Words waste breath.


    They attack together again, but this time I''m ready. I feint toward Wiry, making him hesitate, then pivot sharply toward Broken-Nose. The sudden direction change catches him off-guard. I drive forward with a powerful straight right that connects squarely with his already-damaged nose.


    Blood sprays as my fist connects with Broken-Nose''s face. There''s a strange sensation¡ªa surge of power from my tattoo, as if the snake itself senses the danger and responds. The energy pulses down my arm, amplifying my strike beyond what I''d intended.


    The impact is devastating.


    Broken-Nose''s head snaps back violently, his feet actually leaving the ground. He flies backwards, crashing through the makeshift rope barrier and lands in a heap among the front-row spectators. The crowd erupts, half in shock, half in bloodthirsty delight.


    I stare at my fist for a split second. That wasn''t entirely me.


    "Holy shit!" Cain''s voice cuts through the roar. "Did you see that? He just¡ª"


    No time to contemplate. Wiry has recovered his composure and circles me cautiously, reassessing his approach now that he''s alone. His eyes dart between me and his unconscious partner, calculating his odds.


    "It''s just you and me now," I say, my voice low enough that only he can hear. "Walk away."


    His answer is a desperate lunge, throwing a wild hook that I easily sidestep. His balance is compromised by fear¡ªI can see it in his eyes. He knows he''s outmatched.


    I pivot on my back foot and throw a haymaker aimed directly at his chest. The impact is thunderous. I feel ribs give way beneath my knuckles as all the air rushes from his lungs. He doubles over, gasping.


    The snake tattoo pulses again, sending another wave of power through my arm. I launch a second strike to the same spot, this one even harder than the first. The sound it makes is sickening¡ªa wet thud followed by a crack.


    Wiry collapses to his knees, then pitches forward onto his face. He''s not moving, but he''s still breathing. Something primal stirs within me¡ªthe urge to finish this completely, to demonstrate my dominance beyond any doubt.


    I drop down, straddling his back. My fists rise automatically, ready to rain down punishment. The snake tattoo burns hot now, urging me on, demanding completion. I bring my fist down once, connecting with the back of his head.


    "That''s enough!" someone shouts, but the voice seems distant, unimportant.


    I raise my arm again, feeling detached from my own actions. This isn''t about the fight anymore. It''s about the release¡ªchannelling all my hatred for magic, for the Academy, for everything that''s happened since that night eleven years ago.


    My second strike never lands. Suddenly, bodies are pouring over the barrier, hands grabbing at my shoulders and arms, pulling me backwards.


    "He''s done! He''s done!" The announcer''s voice cuts through my haze. "Match over!"


    I struggle against the restraining hands, the snake''s influence still coursing through me, demanding completion. It takes four men to drag me off Wiry''s prone form.


    "Mark! Snap out of it!" Anja''s voice finally penetrates my fog. She''s standing in front of me now, her blue eyes wide with concern and something else¡ªfear.


    The realization hits me like cold water. They''re afraid of me. Not just Anja, but everyone. The crowd that had been cheering moments ago now keeps its distance, murmuring amongst themselves.


    I shake off the remaining hands and stand up straight, forcing the snake''s influence back down. The tattoo gives one final throb of protest, then goes dormant.


    "I''m fine," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.


    Wiry is being helped to his feet by the venue staff. He''s conscious but dazed, blood trickling from his mouth. Broken-Nose is still out cold, being tended to by someone with rudimentary medical knowledge.


    The announcer approaches cautiously, holding out a small leather pouch. "Your winnings," she says, not quite meeting my eyes. "Double, as promised."


    Stolen story; please report.


    I take the pouch without a word and turn toward where Cain, Anja, and Wentworth stand, watching. Their expressions are a mixture of awe and wariness.


    "I think we should go," Wentworth says quietly.


    I stand there, the leather pouch heavy in my hand, feeling the weight of everyone''s stares. The crowd parts as we make our way toward the exit, whispers following in our wake. My knuckles throb¡ªsplit, and bloody from the fight.


    <hr>


    "Where to now?" I ask, breaking the uncomfortable silence once we''re outside. The night air feels good against my skin, cooling the heat of battle that still lingers beneath my tattoo.


    Cain clears his throat, eyeing the pouch in my hand. "Well, now that you''re flush with cash, how about buying your faithful companions some dinner?" His voice attempts its usual levity but falls slightly flat. "After that display of... enthusiasm, I think we''ve all worked up an appetite."


    I look at him properly now. Despite his joking tone, his eyes betray him¡ªthere''s a new wariness there.


    "Sure," I say, weighing the pouch. "First real money I''ve had since arriving in this damned city."


    "There''s a decent place not far from here," Wentworth suggests, his voice oddly respectful. "The Silver Kettle. Good food, private booths."


    Anja hasn''t said a word since we left the pit. She walks slightly apart from us, her usual animated chatter conspicuously absent.


    "Anja?" I prompt.


    She startles slightly. "What? Oh, food. Yes, that''s fine."


    We walk in awkward silence for several blocks. The streets are quieter now, most of the respectable citizens having retired for the evening. Only the occasional group of revellers or lone workers passes us.


    "That was quite something back there," Wentworth finally says, his tone measured. "I''ve studied combat techniques academically, of course, but to witness such raw efficiency..." He adjusts his spectacles. "Most impressive."


    "Yeah," Cain adds with a forced laugh. "Remind me never to steal your breakfast. You''d probably rip my arms off and beat me to death with them."


    I don''t respond. What could I say? That I nearly lost control? That the snake''s influence pushed me further than I intended to go? That for a moment, I wasn''t entirely myself?


    The Silver Kettle is a modest establishment with polished wooden tables and soft lantern lights. The server''s eyes widen slightly at my appearance¡ªdried blood spattered across my shirt, knuckles raw and crusted with more of the same.


    "Private booth," Wentworth requests smoothly, sliding a coin across the counter. "And perhaps a damp cloth for my friend."


    We''re led to a secluded corner. I sit with my back to the wall, an old habit from mercenary days. The server returns with food menus and a small basin of water, but no cloth.


    "Sorry, sir," she says nervously. "We''ve no spare towels tonight."


    I dip my hands into the water, watching as crimson clouds bloom and disperse. It stings, but the pain is clarifying, helping me focus.


    "So," I say, looking up at my companions as the server hurries away. "Are we going to talk about what happened back there?"


    Cain fidgets with a fork. "You mean how you nearly turned those guys inside out? Nah, a totally normal Sunday night activity."


    "I''ve seen combat before," Anja says quietly. "In Jeolara, during the border skirmishes. But that was..." She shakes her head. "Different."


    "It was the tattoo," I admit, surprising myself with my candour. "When I fight, it... responds. Enhances things. But tonight was stronger than before."


    Wentworth leans forward, academic curiosity overriding any discomfort. "Fascinating. The emotional state of combat must trigger some form of sympathetic response in the magical construct of the tattoo. A feedback loop, perhaps?"


    "It''s not magic," I snap reflexively.


    "Of course," Wentworth concedes, though his expression says otherwise. "Whatever you wish to call it, it''s remarkable. You''re remarkable."


    The server returns with our food, eyeing the bloodstains on my shirt with visible discomfort. I realize I must look like a madman¡ªblood-spattered, with no obvious injuries of my own.


    "So," Cain says through a mouthful of food, "what''s next on the Mark adventure tour? More underground fighting? Maybe wrestling a chimera?"


    "I need to understand what''s happening with this," I reply, touching my arm where the snake tattoo lies dormant beneath my sleeve. "And I need to be able to control it better."


    I finish the last of my food, watching as the others eat. The tension from earlier has faded somewhat, replaced by an uneasy quiet punctuated only by Cain''s occasional attempts at humour.


    "I need new clothes," I say, looking down at my blood-spattered shirt. "Can''t exactly walk back to the Academy looking like this."


    "You could claim it''s a new fashion trend," Cain suggests, gesturing with his fork. "Blood-splatter chic. Very avant-garde."


    I ignore him, fishing out a few coins from the pouch of winnings. "Is there anywhere still open at this hour that sells clothing?"


    "Night Market should still be running," Wentworth offers. "It''s about fifteen minutes from here, near the southern canal."


    I nod, then look at the others. Their plates are mostly empty, and I can see the weariness in their eyes. It''s been a long night, made longer by my display at the fighting pit.


    "You don''t all need to come," I say, dropping more coins on the table to cover our meal. "It''s late. You can head back if you want."


    Cain yawns dramatically. "Well, if you insist¡ª"


    "I''ll come with you," Anja interrupts, surprising me. She hasn''t said much since we left the pit.


    I study her face, searching for signs of the fear I glimpsed earlier. "You don''t have to, Anja. I know what happened back there was... intense."


    She meets my gaze directly. "I''m not afraid of you, if that''s what you''re thinking."


    But she is. I can see it in the slight tension around her eyes, the way she''s sitting just a bit farther from me than usual. I don''t blame her. I frightened myself tonight.


    "It''s fine," I say quietly. "You should get some rest. All of you."


    Wentworth clears his throat. "I actually have an early class tomorrow. Advanced Runic Applications with Professor Hallinfear."


    "And I''ve got... sleeping to do," Cain adds. "Very important sleeping."


    I nod, relieved they''re taking the out I''ve offered. The last thing I need is to worry about their reactions while I''m still processing what happened myself.


    "Anja," I say, turning to her specifically. "You''ve been a good friend¡ªmy first real friend here. I don''t want to ruin that."


    Her expression softens slightly. "You''re not ruining anything, Mark. I just..." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "I''ve never seen that side of you before."


    "Neither have I," I admit. "Not exactly."


    She studies me for a moment, then nods slowly. "Alright. Get your clothes, and get some rest. We''ll talk tomorrow."


    "Tomorrow," I agree.


    We leave the Silver Kettle together, but at the first intersection, we part ways¡ªWentworth and Cain heading toward the Academy''s main entrance, Anja toward the eastern gate closest to her dormitory.


    "Don''t do anything I wouldn''t do," Cain calls over his shoulder. "Which leaves you a lot of options, actually."


    I watch them go, feeling a strange mixture of relief and isolation. For a brief moment, I''d allowed myself to believe I could have normal friendships here, despite everything. Now I''m not so sure.


    Anja pauses at the corner, looking back at me. "Mark?"


    "Yeah?"


    "Whatever that was tonight... we''ll figure it out. That''s what friends do."


    She doesn''t wait for my response, just turns and continues walking. I stand there for a moment longer, her words echoing in my mind.


    Friends. It''s still an unfamiliar concept, one I never sought out during my mercenary years. Captain Maya always said attachments were dangerous in our line of work. But here, now, I''m beginning to understand their value.


    I turn and head toward the Night Market alone, my footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. The snake tattoo remains dormant under my sleeve, but I can feel its presence¡ªa constant reminder that I''m carrying something I don''t fully understand.


    Something I need to learn to control before I truly hurt someone.


    I walk alone through the empty streets, my footsteps echoing off stone and brick. The night air carries a chill that seeps through my blood-stained clothes, but I barely notice it. My mind is too busy replaying what happened at the fighting pit.


    That wasn''t me back there. Or rather, it wasn''t entirely me.


    The snake tattoo has always given me strength when I needed it, a slight edge in combat¡ªbut tonight was different. Tonight, it felt like the snake was fighting through me, not just with me. The distinction matters.


    I flex my hand, examining my bruised knuckles in the dim light of a street lamp. The skin is split and crusted with dried blood¡ªsome mine, most not. The pain is dull, distant, almost comforting in its familiarity.


    "You''re losing control," I mutter to myself, voicing the fear I couldn''t admit in front of the others.


    Captain Maya''s voice echoes in my memory: "Control is everything in combat. Lose it, and you''ve already lost the fight."


    But this isn''t just about combat anymore. This is about something living under my skin, something with its own hunger for violence. Something I don''t fully understand.


    I continue walking, letting my feet carry me forward while my thoughts spiral inward. The streets grow narrower as I approach the Night Market district, the buildings leaning toward each other like conspirators. Fewer lamps here, more shadows. The kind of place where mercenaries like me used to do our business.


    My mind drifts to Anja''s face when she pulled me off Wiry¡ªthe shock, the uncertainty. Even Cain''s jokes couldn''t hide his wariness. And Wentworth... his academic curiosity might be the most dangerous reaction of all.


    I''ve spent years building walls around myself, keeping everyone at arm''s length. It was safer that way¡ªfor me, for them. Now, for the first time since Captain Maya, I''ve let people get close. And what do they see? A man who can barely control the power living inside him.


    A man who might be more monster than human.


    The thought stops me cold. Is that what I''m becoming? Is that what the snake wants?


    I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. I''ve reached the Night Market without realizing it. Despite the late hour, there''s still activity here¡ªvendors closing up shops, late-night revellers making their final purchases, shadows moving with purpose in the alleyways.


    My eyes catch on a small shop wedged between a spice merchant and what looks like a pawnbroker. A simple wooden sign hangs above the door: "Stitch & Thread." The windows are dark, but a sliver of light shows beneath the door.


    I approach and knock, not really expecting an answer. To my surprise, the door creaks open almost immediately.


    "We''re closed," says a gruff voice from the darkness inside.


    "I need clothes," I reply, gesturing to my blood-spattered shirt. "Just something simple."


    The figure in the doorway shifts, and light from somewhere deeper in the shop illuminates a weathered face. The man is old, with skin like tanned leather and eyes that have seen too much. He takes in my appearance with a single glance.


    "Blood''s not yours," he says. Not a question.


    "Most of it isn''t."


    He studies me for a moment longer, then steps back, opening the door wider. "Come in, then."


    I hesitate, instinct warning me that this is too easy, too convenient. But I need the clothes, and something about the old man''s demeanour suggests he''s seen worse than me.


    I step inside, and the door closes behind me with a soft click. The shop is narrow but deep, with racks of clothing stretching back into shadows. The light comes from a single oil lamp on a counter near the back.


    "Fighting pit?" the old man asks as he moves past me, heading toward a rack of plain shirts.


    "How did you know?"


    He gives me a look that makes me feel young and foolish. "Been in this city forty years. I know the look." He pulls a dark shirt from the rack and tosses it to me. "Try this. Should fit your frame."


    I catch it, noting the quality of the fabric¡ªsimple but well-made. As I examine it, something catches my eye. Near the collar, almost invisible unless you''re looking for it, is a small symbol stitched in thread barely darker than the fabric itself.


    A snake.

 Chapter 10 - Snake

    I freeze, staring at the tiny snake emblem stitched into the collar. It''s nearly invisible¡ªa shadow within a shadow¡ªbut to my eyes, it might as well be blazing.


    "Something wrong with it?" the old tailor asks, his voice neutral.


    My fingers trace the symbol. "This snake. Why is it here?"


    He shrugs, turning to sort through a stack of trousers. "Just a maker''s mark. Something I do with all my pieces."


    Lies. I''ve spent eleven years reading people''s tells¡ªthe slight tightening around his eyes betrays him. This isn''t random. This isn''t coincidence.


    "How did you know?" I demand, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "About this?" I tap my forearm where my tattoo lies dormant beneath my sleeve.


    The old man''s weathered face reveals nothing. "Know what, exactly?"


    "Don''t play games with me." I step closer, using my height to loom over him. "No one puts a snake symbol on clothing for me by accident."


    He meets my gaze without flinching. "You think you''re the only one with secrets in this city, boy?"


    The shop suddenly feels like a trap. I glance toward the door, calculating how quickly I can reach it. Is someone waiting outside? Is this old man more than he appears?


    "Who sent you?" I ask. "Was it someone from the Academy? Wentworth?"


    A dry chuckle escapes his lips. "Nobody sent me anywhere. I''ve owned this shop for thirty years."


    "Then how did you know?" I clench my fists, feeling the bruises throb.


    Instead of answering, he turns and walks deeper into the shop. "Come. There''s something you should see."


    Every instinct screams danger, but curiosity¡ªthat same damned curiosity that''s kept me at the Academy despite everything¡ªpushes me forward. I follow him to the back, where he pulls aside a heavy curtain, revealing a small workshop.


    On the wall hangs a faded tapestry. The design is intricate, tribal¡ªfamiliar in a way that makes my chest tighten. In the centre, woven in thread that must once have been vibrant but has now faded to a dull rust colour, is a snake devouring its own tail.


    "The Eternal Serpent," he says quietly. "Symbol of the Scaled Ones."


    Scaled ones?


    "Where did you get this?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears.


    "My father traded for it, long before the purges. Before the mages decided your kind were too dangerous to exist."


    I stare at the tapestry, at this piece of my past I never expected to find. But doubt creeps in like poison. This could be fabricated. A trap designed to lower my guard, to make me reveal more about myself.


    "Why show me this?" I ask. "What do you want from me?"


    The old man sighs. "Nothing. But I recognised what you are the moment you stepped through my door. The way you move. The way you hold yourself. The aura. Like you''re carrying something heavy beneath your skin."


    His words hit too close to the truth. I back away, suddenly feeling exposed.


    "I don''t know what game you''re playing¡ª"


    "No games." He picks up the shirt I''d dropped and holds it out. "Just an old man who remembers a time before the world turned against your people. Take the shirt. Consider it a reminder that not everyone in Egozia is your enemy."


    I hesitate, then take the garment. The snake emblem seems to pulse under my fingers.


    "Or it could be poisoned," I say flatly. "Or warded. Or tracked."


    He laughs, a genuine sound that catches me off guard. "Smart boy. Trust no one. That''s how survivors think."


    I fold the shirt carefully. "If you know what I am, then you know why I can''t trust this. Or you."


    "Of course." He nods. "I''d expect nothing less."


    I should leave now. Walk away from this strange old man and his dangerous knowledge. But one question burns in my throat.


    "Are there others?" I ask, hating the vulnerability in my voice. "Like me?"


    His expression softens slightly. "I''m just a tailor, boy. But in a city this size... who can say what secrets hide in plain sight?"


    I leave the tailor''s shop with more questions than answers, the shirt clutched in my hand like something dangerous. The night market''s cacophony fades to background noise as my mind races. Others like me? Impossible. The purges were thorough¡ªI''d spent years searching, finding nothing but ashes and bones.


    I clutch the shirt tighter as I leave the Night Market, weaving through the thinning crowd. Every face I pass seems to linger on me a heartbeat too long. A woman selling late-night pastries smiles in my direction¡ªis she signalling someone? The fruit vendor''s eyes follow me as I pass¡ªmarking my route for others?


    The shirt burns against my palm like a brand. What if it''s not just a shirt? What if there''s more than just that snake symbol? Tracking runes sewn into the seams? Poison in the thread that seeps through the skin?


    I stuff it deeper into my pocket and quicken my pace. A stray cat darts across my path, pausing to stare at me with gleaming eyes. Not a coincidence. Nothing is a coincidence anymore. Is it watching me? Reporting back to someone? Some mages can see through animal eyes¡ªI''d heard stories from the mercenaries.


    Maybe those were just fables.


    "What are you looking at?" I hiss at the creature. It blinks slowly before slinking away into the shadows.


    Two Academy students pass by, laughing together. They fall silent as they notice me. Of course, they do. They''re part of it too. Everyone is. The tailor must have alerted the entire network by now.


    I duck down a side street, then another, doubling back twice to ensure I''m not followed. A night watchman tips his hat to me¡ªa signal to unseen observers? The wind rustles through a nearby tree¡ªor is someone hiding among its branches?


    My heart hammers against my ribs. I press my back against a wall, scanning the empty street. No one is visible, but that means nothing. Magic can hide a dozen watchers. The shirt in my pocket seems to grow heavier with each step.


    What was I thinking? Taking something from a stranger who knew too much about me? Captain Maya would have beaten sense into me for such a rookie mistake.


    Where is Maya?


    A window shuts somewhere above¡ªsomeone tracking my movements. An old woman waters plants on her balcony¡ªkeeping watch. Even the shadows seem to shift and follow me as I move.


    By the time the Academy looms ahead, sweat soaks my back despite the cool night air. I pause at the entrance, scanning the grounds. Too open. Too exposed. But staying outside is worse. They''re all around me now. I can feel their eyes.


    I sprint across the courtyard, certain that dozens of hidden observers are marking my path, reporting my movements through some invisible network that stretches across Egozia. The snake symbol connects them all¡ªthe tailor, the Academy, perhaps even Wentworth and the others. Have they been playing me from the beginning?


    I reach my dormitory building, fumbling with the door. A night guard nods at me¡ªanother one in on it. I take the stairs two at a time, convinced footsteps echo behind me, though when I turn, no one''s there.


    Outside my door, I pause. What if they''re waiting inside? What if Cain is part of it, too? Has he been reporting on me this whole time? The shirt in my pocket might as well be screaming its presence to everyone within a mile.


    I need to destroy it. Hide it. Before they can use it against me.


    <hr>


    Back in my dorm room, I lock the door and examine the shirt viciously under the lamplight. No visible enchantments, check, no strange smells, check, nothing obviously wrong with it. Just that tiny snake emblem, mocking me with its familiarity.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I strip off my torn shirt and throw on the new one. The fabric settles against my skin, surprisingly comfortable. I stand before the mirror, carefuly studying my reflection. The snake symbol at the collar is nearly invisible unless you know exactly where to look.


    "What did he mean?" I mutter quickly, tracing the outline of my tattoo through the fabric.


    Something the tailor said keeps echoing in my mind: "Like you''re carrying something heavy beneath your skin." He saw what others miss¡ªthe burden of these marks, the weight of what they represent. Or something else?


    I roll up my sleeve, fully revealing the snake tattoo. In the dim light of my room, it seems to shift slightly, as if responding to my attention. The Academy''s magical atmosphere has been interfering with it, but what if...


    What if I''m approaching this wrong? What if, instead of fighting against the Academy''s magic, I could work with it somehow?


    I sit cross-legged on the floor, breathing deeply the way Father taught me before... before everything burned. I focus on the tattoo, on the connection between us. The snake has always been an extension of myself, but I''ve never truly explored what that means.


    "Show me," I whisper, onlookers would think I''m crazy.


    Tracing the outline with my fingertip. "Show me what you can do."


    At first, nothing happens.


    Then, a strange tingling sensation spreads from the tattoo up my arm. Different from the usual manifestation¡ªsubtler, deeper. The snake design begins to ripple beneath my skin, no longer just an image but something alive.


    I grit my teeth against the unexpected pain as the tattoo shifts. The snake''s head seems to rise slightly from my skin, its tiny inked eyes gleaming with an inner light.


    "What the¡ª"


    The sensation intensifies. I can feel the tattoo drawing on something¡ªnot just my energy, but something in the air around me. The Academy''s ambient magic. Instead of rejecting it, the tattoo is absorbing it, feeding on it.


    My arm burns like it''s being branded from the inside. The snake design elongates, patterns shifting, scales becoming more defined. This isn''t like manifesting the knife¡ªthis is something else entirely.


    I try to stop the process, to pull back, but it''s too late. The snake tattoo slithers completely free of my skin, materializing as a small but very real serpent coiled around my forearm. Its scales gleam black with iridescent highlights, its eyes two pinpricks of crimson light.


    "Shit!" I jump to my feet, shaking my arm instinctively, but the snake holds fast, neither falling off nor returning to tattoo form.


    The creature flicks its tongue, tasting the air. It doesn''t seem aggressive, but having a living manifestation of my tattoo is definitely not what I intended. I reach to grab it, hoping to somehow force it back into ink form, but the moment my fingers touch its scales, the snake hisses and sinks its fangs into my wrist.


    White-hot pain explodes up my arm. The room spins as venom¡ªor something worse¡ªfloods my system. I stagger, knocking over the bedside lamp. Glass shatters. The snake releases my wrist and slithers up my arm, around my shoulder, coiling at the base of my neck like some perverse ornament.


    My vision blurs. The venom spreads rapidly, but instead of weakening me, it feels like liquid fire in my veins¡ªburning away something, changing something. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.


    The door bangs open. Cain stands there, eyes wide with alarm.


    "Mark? What the hell¡ª" His words cut off as he spots the living snake around my neck. "Is that... your tattoo?"


    I try to answer, but my throat constricts. The room tilts sideways as I collapse to my knees. The snake tightens its coils slightly, not enough to choke me, but a clear warning.


    "Get... Wentworth," I manage to gasp. "Now!"


    I try to focus through the burning pain. The snake''s scales press against my neck, each one a cold counterpoint to the fire racing through my veins. My vision swims, the room''s edges blurring into smears of colour and shadow.


    "Mark? Should I get help? A professor? The infirmary?" Cain''s voice sounds distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears.


    "Went...worth," I manage again, gripping the edge of the bed to stay upright. "Just him."


    Cain hesitates for a heartbeat and then bolts from the room. The snake shifts, sliding around to face me. Its eyes¡ªmy eyes, somehow¡ªlock with mine. There''s intelligence there, a consciousness that isn''t quite mine but isn''t entirely separate either.


    You fight too much, a voice whispers in my mind. Not audible, not even words exactly, but an impression, a feeling translated into thought.


    "What are you?" I gasp, unsure if I''m speaking aloud or just thinking.


    The snake flicks its tongue against my cheek. I am you. I am the beast. I am both.


    "Get back into the tattoo," I command, trying to sound authoritative despite being on my knees.


    The serpent''s body tightens slightly. No. You need me. You are weak here. The magic drowns you.


    I reach up, trying to grab it, but my fingers pass through the creature as if it''s made of smoke. Yet I can still feel its weight, its cold scales against my skin.


    I protect. I adapt.


    "I don''t need protection," I growl.


    The snake''s tongue flicks out again. Lies. You fear. You run. From the old man who knows. From the truth in your blood.


    How does it know about the tailor? Has it been aware all this time, watching through my eyes?


    The door bangs open again. Wentworth rushes in, his eyes widening at the sight of me kneeling on the floor with a serpent wrapped around my neck. Cain hovers in the doorway, his usual swagger replaced by genuine concern.


    "Fascinating," Wentworth breathes, approaching cautiously. "Is this... is this your tattoo?"


    "Yes," I grit out. "Something''s wrong. It''s¡ª" I break off as another wave of burning sensation courses through me. "It''s talking to me."


    Instead of looking skeptical, Wentworth''s eyes light up with excitement. He crouches before me, studying the snake with undisguised fascination.


    "May I?" he asks, reaching out slowly.


    Before I can answer, the snake hisses, baring fangs that glisten with venom. Wentworth jerks his hand back.


    "It''s sentient," he murmurs. "A true familiar manifestation. I''ve only read about such things in ancient texts."


    "What is it?" I demand. "How do I get rid of it?"


    Wentworth circles me slowly, examining the serpent from different angles. "It''s not separate from you¡ªthat''s what makes this so extraordinary. It''s a physical manifestation of your connection to the beast''s essence."


    The snake seems to preen under his attention, its scales rippling with iridescent light.


    "The ancient tribal tattoo masters believed that the marks they created formed a bridge between worlds," Wentworth continues, his voice taking on a lecturer''s tone despite the bizarre situation. "Not just decorative or symbolic¡ªthey were literal channels for power and consciousness."


    He knows, the snake''s voice whispers in my mind. He understands more than he says.


    "How do you know this?" I ask Wentworth, suspicious even through the pain.


    He hesitates, something flashing behind his eyes. "My family''s library contains some... restricted texts. On tribal magic. Practices the Academy considers primitive, but that I find rather ingenious in their elegance."


    The snake slides around, facing Wentworth directly. Ask him about the Scaled Ones.


    I''m not its puppet. But curiosity burns almost as fiercely as the venom. "Do you know anything about the Scaled Ones?"


    Wentworth freezes, his expression shifting from academic interest to shock. "How do you know that name?"


    "The snake told me to ask."


    Wentworth''s gaze darts between me and the serpent. "The Scaled Ones were a tribe of warrior-mystics. They believed serpents were vessels of ancient wisdom, bridges between the physical and spiritual realms." He lowers his voice. "The Academy teaches they were wiped out in the purges, but some scholars believe survivors went into hiding, preserving their knowledge."


    The snake''s satisfaction radiates through our connection. See? Not alone. Never alone.


    The snake''s words echo in my mind. Not alone. Never alone. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I grip the edge of the bed to steady myself.


    "Tell me more," I demand, my voice hoarse. "About the Scaled Ones. What happened to them?"


    Wentworth looks uncomfortable, glancing at the door as if worried someone might be listening. "It''s not exactly... approved curriculum."


    "I don''t give a damn about curriculum," I growl. The snake tightens around my neck, not threateningly but almost... protectively. "If you know something¡ª"


    The door bursts open again. Cain rushes in, panting, with Anja right behind him. They both freeze at the sight of me kneeling on the floor with a living snake wrapped around my neck.


    "Holy shit," Anja whispers, her usual mechanical vocabulary abandoned. "That''s... that''s your tattoo?"


    Cain''s face has gone pale. "I thought you were just being dramatic when you said your tattoo was alive, but¡ª" He takes a step back. "That''s properly freaky, that is."


    The snake turns to regard them, its tongue flicking out to taste the air. I feel its curiosity mingling with my own consciousness.


    "It''s fine," I say, though I''m not entirely convinced. "Wentworth was just about to tell me about the Scaled Ones."


    Anja''s eyes widen. "The what now?"


    Wentworth sighs, running a hand through his hair. "The Scaled Ones were a tribe that specialised in serpent-based magic. They believed snakes were conduits to ancient wisdom, carriers of secrets from before recorded history."


    "Like Mark''s tribe?" Cain asks, still keeping his distance.


    "I don''t know," I admit. The snake shifts, sliding down to coil around my forearm. "My father never called us that. We were just... the tribe."


    They hid the name, the snake whispers in my mind. To protect. To survive.


    "The official Academy position is that the Scaled Ones were destroyed in the purges fifty years ago," Wentworth continues, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "But there are rumours... accounts of survivors who went underground, hiding their identities."


    "Like how?" Anja asks, her face a mixture of fascination and fear as she watches the snake move across my skin.


    Wentworth gestures to the serpent. "By adapting their magic. Traditional tribal magic was visible and obvious¡ªtattoos that glowed with power, ceremonial displays. After the purges, the survivors learned to hide their abilities, to make their magic look like something else."


    The burning sensation in my veins has started to fade, replaced by a strange clarity. I look down at the snake, its scales gleaming in the dim light.


    "You think my tribe... my people... could be the Scaled Ones?" I ask.


    Wentworth shrugs. "The timing fits. The abilities match what little we know. And that¡ª" he points to the snake "¡ªis exactly the kind of manifestation described in the ancient texts."


    "But if they''re still out there," Cain says, finally taking a cautious step forward, "why haven''t they found you? Why would they leave one of their own to fend for himself?"


    It''s a question I''ve asked myself a thousand times over the years. Why was I alone? Why did no one come for me?


    "The tailor¡­"


    Safety in separation, the snake whispers. The scattered survive where the gathered perish.


    "Maybe they don''t know I exist," I say quietly. "Or maybe they thought I died in the attack."


    Anja sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes never leaving the snake. "That tailor you mentioned... the one who recognized something about you. Could he be one of them?"


    The thought sends a jolt through me. Not paranoia this time, but hope¡ªdangerous, fragile hope.


    "I need to go back," I say, struggling to my feet. The snake adjusts its position, sliding up to rest across my shoulders. "I need to talk to him again."


    "Not tonight," Wentworth says firmly. "You''re in no condition, and if he is connected to the Scaled Ones, rushing in half-prepared could scare him off."


    He''s right, though I hate to admit it. The venom¡ªor whatever the snake injected me with¡ªhas left me shaky and weak.


    "Tomorrow then," I insist. "First light."


    Anja and Cain exchange worried glances.


    "We''ll go with you," Anja says, though her eyes keep darting nervously to the snake.


    "All of us," Wentworth adds. "If this is what I think it is, you might need... academic expertise."


    The snake seems to laugh in my mind. The tall one wants your secrets.


    "Fine," I agree, sinking back onto the bed. "But this stays between us. No one else can know."

 Chapter 11 - Stop

    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¡ªa 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¡ªless 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¡ªpain, 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¡ªcharged 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¡ªthat 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¡ª"


    "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¡ª"


    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¡ª" 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¡ª"


    "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¡ª"


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


    "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¡ª"


    "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¡ªfamiliar 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¡ªnone 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¡ªstudents 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¡ªwildflowers, 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.

 Chapter 12 - Escape (1)

    "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¡ªthey 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¡ªif 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¡ªthe 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¡ªchild''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¡ªthen 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¡ªthat''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¡ªthe 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¡ªnot 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¡ªthe 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¡ªfriendships, belonging, understanding my powers¡ªit''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¡ªthe 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¡ªa 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¡ªnot 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¡ªdarker, 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¡ªI trained with Maya''s mercenaries for years¡ªbut 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¡ª"


    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¡ªmechanical parts¡ªclattering 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¡ªa 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¡ªnot 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¡ªthe 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¡ªdarkening 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¡ªwe''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¡ªMaya and her mercenaries were no amateurs¡ªbut 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¡ªa motion so smooth it''s almost imperceptible¡ªand 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¡ª" 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¡ª"


    "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¡ªhow 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¡ªnot 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¡ªSihx¡ªwith a mercenary''s practised eye. His stance, his scars, the way he handles his weapon¡ªall 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¡ª 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¡ªhis 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¡ªa 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¡ªthe 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¡ªabout the Scaled Ones, about my tattoo, about this mysterious swordsman¡ªthey''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?