“I’m Irmond,” the elf boy said, taking a seat beside the brazier. He tucked his knees up to his chest, then rested his chin on them and sighed.

  “Wulf,” said Wulf, extending his hand.

  Cautiously, Irmond took it, then shook it, as if Wulf was going to bite him. Wulf didn’t. After a few seconds, he realized it was probably because his veins had turned slightly green. The greenvein poison was a subtle sickness that gave the victim cold-like symptoms, but he expected to resist most of it.

  Being a stronger potion, he might not resist all of it.

  Ján and Brin both introduced themselves, and finally, Brin asked, “How’d a Maple Elf end up with the Fletchers, anyway? Didn’t think you guys were the arrow-making type.”

  Irmond plucked his Fletcher pin off his tunic and tossed it in the brazier. “They were the only guys who’d sell me a textbook. They’d bought out like the whole bookstore, and were upcharging people outside. Part of the deal after buying the book was that I had to help them and wear their pin, that kinda stuff. By the Field, I feel so stupid…”

  Wulf snorted. The Guilds were starting their greedy little businessmen young. Even if they never went on to pilot Oroniths, their kids would have a good education and connections, and most importantly, practice scamming people out of their gold.

  “Well, can they prove you bought the book from them?” Wulf asked.

  “N—no.”

  “Then they’re a paper chimera. All roar, but no leverage.” Wulf crossed his arms. “Don’t deal with them again, though, alright?”

  “I won’t,” Irmond said. “I…I didn’t know you were such a good fighter. I saw you sitting in the back in Introduction to Scouting and Spotting. I…didn’t think much of you.”

  “You can just call it RGST one-oh-three,” Ján said. “No one will be mad at you. Except maybe Dr. Kuali!” At that, he gave a cackle.

  “You probably did see me,” Wulf said, ignoring Ján.

  “How’d you afford potions?” Brin asked. “Did the headmaster give them to you? You’re the guy who had to go have a chat with him, right?”

  “I, uh…” Wulf shrugged. “What potions?”

  Ján, Brin, and Irmond all sighed and stared at him blankly.

  “Alright,” Wulf whispered. “I’d appreciate it if you kept the potion stuff to yourself. These guys are already so far ahead of us, and if we’re going to catch up, we’re going to need a leg up. They’re probably not good for you guys to drink, but…well, I’d highly suggest you try to find some sort of trick.”

  He knew how that sounded, coming from the guy with a unique Class, but they also didn’t know about his Class, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  But then he yawned, and this time, it wasn’t because of any potion. He was actually exhausted, mentally and physically. “Alright, guys. I’m going back to my room, and I’m going to sleep.”

  “Got it,” Ján said. “But…hey, are you sure it’s such a great idea to stand up to the Fletchers?”

  “Someone has to do it. Why not me?”

  “What if they complain to the faculty?”

  “Not after I humiliated them like that.” Wulf shook his head. “People like that are little rats.”

  With that, he stood up, then walked back to the common room’s door. The other students watched him curiously, but no one approached him. No one else probably wanted to be associated with him.

  When he reached the door, though, he looked back. Brin and Ján said around the brazier, talking gently with Irmond, and Wulf let a slight smile seep onto his face.

  I already dragged Ján and Brin through hell once, even if they don’t remember, he thought. I’ll hang out with them, but I’m not bringing them along again. This time, they get to live a normal life.

  If I need a crew, I’ll find someone who wants to go with me. Not someone who has to be convinced.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next morning, Wulf awoke with a sore throat and a stuffed nose, but after a few minutes, it faded, and that was the worst of the potion’s side effects. The green veins along his hands had faded, though the tips of his fingers were still stained green. Not obvious, unless someone stared too long.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  But he’d keep that in mind. He couldn’t resist all Tiers of poisons yet, and he’d have to be careful about what he drank.

  He packed up his potions again, then pulled his haversack over his shoulder. According to Ján, it was Thirdday—halfway through the week—and that meant there were classes. They only got one day off a week, and that was Sixday.

  He reviewed his schedule and a hand-sketched map of the campus he’d drawn forty-one years ago (or a week ago, depending on how you looked at it), then planned his route accordingly. The first class was ADST 101, or Basics of Field-Based Advancement.

  It was in a lecture theater on the main campus mound—the same butte where the headmaster’s office was, except in a long, modern hall off to the side of the mound, where hundreds of students gathered outside, waiting for their class to begin.

  A bell tolled, the previous lecture’s Ascendants stepped out, and the next batch stepped in. Wulf lingered near the edge of the crowd, minding his own business, and shuffling along with the line.

  That didn’t stop a young panglian woman from crashing into him in her rush. Pangians were a humanoid race from the eastern reaches of the Confederation, who shared a few many traits with the pangolins they shared the land with. Scaly tails, clawed hands and feet (she didn’t wear any boots) and a pattern of scales on their foreheads. Their eyes were deep black, and all pupil. Otherwise, like most races, she was a human.

  She bowed an apology, then scrunched up her eyebrows.

  There was something just slightly off about her, but Wulf couldn’t put his finger on it. Experience told him that it was nothing to worry about. Then again, it was probably his experience that was making his mind run in circles in the first place.

  And the fact that she looked equally concerned about him didn’t help.

  Wulf tried, “Hey, it’s alright, I just—”

  But before he could finish, she took off into the crowd and disappeared.

  Weird.

  But he kept on shuffling into the class, then took a seat near the back and opened his notebook. He took out a quill, set his inkwell out, and prepared to take notes. Though almost everything here would be a review for him, it couldn’t hurt to put in a little effort. There might have been something he missed his first time.

  “Good morning,” said the lecturer once they sat down. The lecture hall could seat about three hundred students in its amphitheatre-shaped risers, and had a couple chandeliers hanging from the ceiling to light it. On the far wall, just behind the lecturer, was an enormous sheet of enchanted parchment.

  The lecturer tapped the sheet’s side, and ink diffused upward through the paper, forming letters. It read: Dr. Maron, ADST 101, Lecture 9: Marks.

  It confirmed what Wulf had already assumed: the first week of classes was done, and they were in the second week. Now that he could pinpoint the date in his mind, he was starting to feel a little less disoriented.

  Though some things would still take some getting used to. Like the fact that his legs didn’t have nearly as much muscle to cushion him from the cold, hard seat, or that he just didn’t take up as much room as he used to, or when he rested his forearms on the table, it was just skin between the hard surface and his wrist bones.

  “Marks are some of the most essential elements of arcane advancement,” Dr. Maron began. “As such, our second topic—which will occupy our next few weeks—will be covering Marks as a whole.”

  Dr. Maron began pacing back and forth in front of the class. He wore a long green coat, with a High-Iron badge pinned to the lapel and coattails that brushed the ground with each step. He was a human with swarthy skin and curly hair, and eyes that swept the crowd, almost always accusatory.

  Part of Wulf didn’t want to like him, but another side was undecided.

  “By the end of the semester, I expect that each and every one of you will have obtained a single Mark, but I will be available in my office hours for questions—you can find the hours posted on the wall over here—and I would be happy to provide assistance within reasonable means. But remember: the Field will give you nothing if you don’t work toward it with all your heart. If you recall our lectures from last week, it is not only important that you move toward your goals, but that you make your goal your main focus in your life.

  “If you are a Mage, make focussing on a spell Skill your main task, not something that you fit into the cracks of your schedule. If you are a ranger, practice your archery and sight Skills during…”

  For a few seconds, Wulf let the man’s voice trail off. It was easy for him to tell them to not let something slip into the cracks of the schedule, but then again, not everyone had that luxury—especially with five classes a semester.

  Then again…those who wanted it would make it work, right?

  Already, the challenge seemed appealing, and the fact that it was slightly unfair made Wulf want to try harder just to spite it.

  If nothing else, he’d bash his head against the problem until it gave in.

  “...Marks are granted by the Field for extraordinary achievements which a normal, non-Ascendant person would be incapable of achieving, and that most Ascendants don’t achieve,” Dr. Maron continued. “For example, owning one magical staff is not rare, but having a collection of twenty of them may earn you a Mark. Only the greatest, rarest, and most powerful Marks will warrant the visit of a Messenger to personally award your efforts.”

  He rambled on a little longer, and Wulf took notes, but there wasn’t anything terribly interesting, until the end of the fifty-minute long lecture, where Dr. Maron said, “The purpose of Marks is generally to provide the equivalent of a weak passive skill, or a permanent increase in your physical capabilities. There is a reason that Ruby-Tier Ascendants can move as quickly as they do, or shatter mountains with a single punch from their Oronith: they have accumulated enough Marks to do so.”

  After that lecture, Wulf had to run across the butte to a different theatre. On odd-numbered days, he had two classes, and even days, he had three.

  However, being an odd-numbered day meant everyone had mandatory combat training in the afternoon—no exceptions. After his second lecture, for Introduction to Artificing, he ate lunch at the mess hall. The food was sorta bland, but considering that in his rush, he’d skipped supper last night, and breakfast this morning, even the stove-grilled chicken and boiled barley was welcome.

  After scarfing down a meal, he gathered his haversack and marched to the training gym—the same place he’d woken up yesterday.

  He ran across campus once more, then changed into a sleeveless sparring tunic and shorts, before running back into the gym.

  It was time for what he was best at: hitting things really hard.