I wake to the unfamiliar softness beneath me. For a moment, panic grips my chest—where 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—another 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—each 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—all 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—training, 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—I 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—a 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—never 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—concentrated, refined through generations of magical practice—interferes 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—or rather, struggles to manifest—in 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—"

  "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—"

  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—one 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.

  "—and the applications could revolutionise our understanding of essence transfer. The implications for non-traditional channelling alone would—" 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—"

  "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.

  "—those 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—" 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...

  "—Definitely not Haven, their records clearly show—"

  "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—"

  "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—"

  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.

  "—completely 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—"

  "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—"

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

  "Ah! Yes!" He spins around, gesturing wildly at me. "This specimen—subject—person 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—"

  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—perfectly 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—"

  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—"

  "No tests," I repeat firmly.

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

  "That was different! The cat clearly consented to—"

  "It was a cat, Leok."

  I tune out their bickering, focusing instead on the runic diagrams covering the slate. Some symbols look familiar—protection 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—"

  "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—"

  "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—"

  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—"

  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.