"We'll leave."
"What?" Klyden's voice cracked in disbelief, halfway through tightening his boots.
The others—Liora, Keiya, Reiyell, and Ashborne—froze in place and looked at Wads. No one spoke, the silence weighing heavily.
Wads let out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as if already exhausted by their reactions. "Just pack your things. We're leaving right away." His tone carried no room for argument.
Without waiting for their response, he turned his back on them and headed for the door.
———
Deep under the forest's green canopy, where sunlight turned to knife-thin shafts and the air tasted of loam and old rot, a cave gaped like a wound in the earth. Moss clung to the stone around it; roots braided across the entrance in obscene knots. The Forsaken did not live up to the romantic names the countryside gave it — here the trees were cramped, trunks braided with black lichen; fog pooled low and sluggish like a living thing. Sound died quickly in this place, swallowed by the hush of damp leaves.
Two figures lay by the cave mouth. One was broad and still, a hulking silhouette with the quiet drift of a sleeping tempest: Draven. Seven feet of muscle and scar tissue, his presence folded the air — practical clothing, rough-cut boots, a map of old wounds across his shoulders. Beside him, coiled with the feline ease of someone who trusted the dark more than the day, Caelith dozed on his side. He had the look of someone who had learned the mathematics of menace: thin, long-limbed, with a face that could be patient as a clock and eyes that did not sleep easily. The faint spider tattoo at the base of his neck was a black smudge when he breathed; in the cave's cool it seemed almost a living thing.
In his sleeping mind the world burned.
I am six and I have dirt in my teeth. The smoke smells like iron and the sky is the color of a wound. We find the bodies first — women with their hair braided into grass and men with their legs gone. The noble's men come with torches and laughter; they take the silver and then the children. I learn to run by counting the beat of soldiers' boots. The little ones cry under carts; someone tosses me a crust of bread that tastes like old rope. I hide inside a collapsed storeroom and press my mouth to the cool planks and breathe dust, because the dust is quieter than the shouting.
They take the oldest to the yard. A face with eyes like a pale stone who looks at me and does not blink. He tries to trade me a spoon for a funny coin but the coin slides from his hand because his fingers are gone. The men laugh and stamp on the spoons. I vow then: never cry where they can see.
And then Draven — not yet Draven by name, only a fist-sized warmth in the cold — finds me staring at a burned swing. He is sullen and smaller then, his lip scarred in a line from some older cruelty. He does not ask for anything. He sits and offers me half his loaf like pity is a shared meal. We learn how to move between soldiers' feet, the spaces no one watches. We sleep in wells, we peel bark for soup. We promise each other a roof, some day. We promise that if the world asks for us, we will give the world back its teeth.
A twig snapped — too soft to be an animal, too deliberate to be the forest's usual whisper. Caelith's eyes opened with the painless precision of a blade unsealed. For a heartbeat the dream's heat clung to the edges of his vision, then it peeled away like a film.
A cloaked man moved toward them, one of the less conspicuous shapes they used to keep the caves tidy: hood low, boots mute on the moss. He lowered himself on one knee and bowed his head, a careful, subordinate motion that meant information — not gossip.
"The students left the inn," the man reported. His voice was a low thread against the trees.
Caelith's mouth made a sound like a small amused wind. "Are they heading toward us this early?" He let the question hang like a line baited with curiosity. The idea pleased him; his plan had fancied an early arrival, a trap drawn before the light learned the place's edges.
The cloaked man's head briefly shook, slow and clear. "No. They left with the wagon — they're heading back to the capital."
The smile died on Caelith's lips as if someone had drawn a cool hand across them. For a moment the forest's silence felt personal, like a room going still to listen. The news uncurled into a dozen calculations in his head: retreat, mistake, backup, warning. None of them were good.
"Did you see all of them leave?" he asked, voice even.
"All of them," the man said. "Together. They moved quickly, but tidy. No one saw the wagon leave, but the stable hand later reported it. They took the northern route."
It was a small detail, but precise — and for men who made maps of other people's missteps, small things breathed meaning. Caelith's brow tightened. He could feel the faint electric tick at his nape, the spider tattoo's edge a pulse beneath his hand. He pressed his palm against it without thinking; the indented ink was cooler than the skin around it.
"Check the inn. See if anything else is missing. Then return." Caelith instructed. His voice was not loud; it didn't need to be. The forest took his sound and folded it into the shade. The cloaked man rose, moving like smoke unthreading from his knee, and vanished into the trees with a rustle of leaves.
Draven shifted, the long sound of it like a giant shifting his weight. He watched Caelith for a long second, the old comrade's face unreadable in the half-dark, and then he nodded. "They were reckless. Children," he said, not unkindly. "Perhaps they smell fear."
"Or perhaps they were warned," Caelith said. A small bitter twitch tugged at one corner of his mouth. He had believed, at first, that the Academy's youngsters were easy prey — green, overconfident, useful as test subjects. He had planned around that. Now plans had to be reconsidered.
"Draven," he said finally, as the larger man reached the cave's deeper shadow. "Go inside. Tell the two by the pit to be ready. I don't want any surprises if the wagon circles back."
Draven's hand tightened on the haft of his spear, and the soft click of his boots as he turned sounded like a promise.
Caelith exhaled, slow, and his fingers traced the spider at his neck again. Under his palm it hummed faintly — a reaction he felt rather than measured — and for an instant he saw, not the cave, not the children he once had been, but the long litigation of events to come: a wagon upending at dawn, a plan unwinding, an enemy learning to move like smoke.
The forest made no reply. Only the leaves sighed, and somewhere far away a bird gave up a single thin call. Caelith folded his hands, and for the first time since he had left the ruined village of his childhood, the memory of small hands and the smell of burning did not make him flinch. It made him patient. He would wait. He would plan. He would see how they moved.
———
The afternoon dragged on, shadows growing long though the sun had yet to set. Caelith sat in silence, tapping his finger against his knee as if each second of waiting gnawed at him. Then his eyes narrowed—the presence of someone approaching tickled the edge of his senses.
The cloaked man he had sent earlier emerged from between the trees, boots dragging through the dirt. In his grasp, a body slumped forward, hands tied, a rough sack drawn tight around the head. The prisoner's neck strained against the knot as he was yanked by the collar, stumbling and gasping under the merciless pull.
Caelith's eyes lingered, studying the figure. Then, slowly, his lips stretched into a malicious grin that split his face. He leaned back lazily, almost entertained, like a predator watching prey walk straight into his den.
The cloaked man kneeled, forcing the body down with a thud.
"You found a rat at the inn?" Caelith's tone dripped with intrigue, his eyes gleaming with delight.
The cloaked man gave a silent nod.
A laugh burst from Caelith, sharp and mocking. He pressed a palm to his forehead and tilted his head back, shoulders shaking with a cruel amusement. "Pathetic! To think one of them would sneak around alone... ah, students truly have no idea how the world works. Did they imagine they could spy on me and walk out alive? Such stupidity almost makes me pity them."
Still grinning, he rose to his feet, walking slowly—purposefully—toward the prisoner. His boots crunched against the dirt, echoing in the still forest. Then he crouched, his hand reaching forward, fingers curling around the edge of the sack.
"Let's see which fool decided to play rat~" his voice dropped low, taunting, cruel.
Before he could tug the sack free, the heavy tread of footsteps echoed from the cave entrance. Draven, by the sound.
Caelith yanked the sack off—his smirk froze, his eyes widening in shock. It wasn't a student.
It was his own subordinate.
The man's lifeless eyes stared back at him. For a fraction of a second, Caelith's mind went blank—then instinct screamed. His head snapped toward the cloaked figure still crouched at his side.
But before he could utter a spell, an unseen force detonated against his chest. His body rocketed backwards, the impact so immense that trees splintered as he crashed through them. Branches snapped like brittle bones until his back slammed against the trunk of a massive tree fifty paces away, the thunderous crack echoing through the forest.
Caelith's thoughts reeled. The pressure of that magic—so heavy it crushed the breath from his lungs. His momentum halted only when he flared his own magic, forcing gravity to fold around him. His boots dug into the dirt, his body trembling from the force.
"...Gravity magic." He spat the word, his teeth clenched as blood dripped from his lip.
"CAELITH!" Draven's furious roar tore through the clearing, his voice carrying from the cave.
Draven lunged, fury blazing, but his eyes locked onto the cloaked figure's palm—still glowing faintly from the spell. The hood fell back, and dark messy hair spilled free, revealing piercing brown eyes that glared coldly.
"...You—" Draven's breath caught.
It was Wads.
But Wads didn't even spare him a glance. His gaze was fixed solely in the direction Caelith had been blasted, his steps calm, deliberate, unstoppable.
"You bastard!" Draven snarled, lunging again—only to have a boot slam against his face with brutal precision. His head snapped back as he stumbled, dirt spraying beneath him.
"Hold on there, buddy." A cheerful voice rang out, mocking in its lightness.
Klyden landed on the forest floor, brushing dirt from his cloak. A sword gleamed at his left hip, its edge catching the dimming light. At his side, a shadow stretched unnaturally, twisting—and from it emerged Ashborne, silent, his dual blades strapped across his back, his crimson eyes faintly glowing under the hood of his black cloak.
The sight made Draven's stomach churn. Both cloaked in the black garb Kaizer had given them, both standing in his way like executioners.
Grinding his teeth, Draven snapped a telepathic signal to the cave. Kreivel. Now. We're under attack.
Far away, within Lord Kreivel's estate, a sudden pulse jolted him from his chair. He rose sharply, cane in hand, striding to the door. But when he flung it open, he froze.
The air shifted.
At the far end of the hall, a figure moved toward him. A black cloak trailed behind, its hem brushing the marble floor. Her skirt whispered with each step, and her loose wavy blue hair rippled like water in a storm. Though her eyes were closed, each movement exuded the elegance of someone who did not need sight to command the world.
Then her aura unfurled.
It wasn't mere magic—it was a suffocating tide that pressed against his skin, crawling down his throat, sinking into his bones. The temperature plummeted, the air itself quivering with invisible weight. Kreivel's breath caught as a cold, unnatural silence filled the hall, broken only by the faint hiss of her power gnawing at the edges of reality.
It was as though the world itself recoiled from her presence. Shadows twisted unnaturally, and the walls seemed to groan as if straining beneath her pressure. Kreivel's hands gripped his cane tighter to stop them from trembling.
And then—her eyes opened.
Indicolite. A color both beautiful and alien, like staring into a storm trapped beneath glass. They locked onto him with quiet, unshakable certainty. A predator's gaze, yet perfectly calm.
Kreivel forced a smug smile, though sweat prickled at his neck. "I knew they had someone strong. But I didn't expect..." His voice faltered for a moment before he pushed it back into a smirk. "...that it would be The Frost Sovereign Princess of Ravenscroft."
Reiyell stopped, her smile delicate, cold, and utterly merciless.