Darken shuffled into the common room, looking less like a promising mage and more like a man who had just lost an argument with a staircase. His robes were wrinkled and misbuttoned, a sleeve half-rolled, and his normally sharp expression dulled by sheer exhaustion. He sagged into the nearest chair without so much as a word, radiating the quiet despair of someone who had realized too late that stamina wasn't just a stat, but a precious, limited resource.

  “I live,” he rasped, collapsing into one of the worn armchairs.

  Weylan, lounging near the fireplace with Selvara perched on his shoulder, raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘live.’”

  Darken waved a hand weakly. “The Dark Elixir of Endurance… didn’t endure.”

  Alina, seated cross-legged on a nearby bench, arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You brewed a potion that only works if you believe in it. And you had doubt.”

  Darken groaned. “Turns out you can’t cheat Dark Homeopathy if you don’t have full faith in your own creation.”

  Faya leaned forward, offering a steaming mug. “Here, try this. It’s chamomile and honey.”

  Darken eyed it suspiciously. “Is it poisoned?”

  Faya smiled sweetly. “Only if you’re allergic to kindness.”

  Darken took the cup like a condemned man accepting his fate.

  Weylan chuckled. “Look on the bright side. At least you learned something.”

  Darken took a sip, winced, and then sighed. “That I’m a terrible alchemist?”

  “That chamomile is more potent than your dark arts,” Weylan corrected, and took out a spell focus from his bag of holding. He aimed it at the Master of the Dark Arts and let his mana flow into it. A pale cone of light washed of Darken and his clothes slowly lost their creases and sweat stains.

  Before Darken could thank him, Fiona entered the room and clapped her hands. “Free afternoon, freshbloods. Go explore. Or stay here and be boring.” She gave Darken a once-over. “In your case, maybe consider a nap.”

  The group began naturally splitting up.

  Ulmenglanz announced, “I’ll visit the greenhouse.”

  Faya looked over at Alina. “Dueling arena? I heard some young handsome combat mages are having a training session there.

  Alina rolled her eyes. “And you heard they train with bare upper bodies. I’ll come. Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”

  Mirabelle clapped her hands. “I want to return to Bookhalla. There are too many spells I haven’t even read about.”

  Weylan and Darken exchanged a look.

  Weylan folded his arms. “You’re not going alone.”

  Darken groaned. “Yeah, if the book goblins eat you, your goddess might smite us.”

  Mirabelle rolled her eyes. “Fine. I accept the company of two dashing bodyguards. You can help carry more books.”

  Darken muttered, “We’ll send you a bill later.”

  Bookhalla was even busier than during their orientation. The towering library was alive with motion. Book goblins scrambled up ladders, darted across beams, and skittered along the tops of swaying shelves like caffeinated squirrels.

  “Is it… always like this?” Darken asked.

  Mirabelle looked around wide eyed, “That can’t be normal.”

  Curiosity piqued, they followed the flow of goblins deeper into the library, navigating past towering shelves and chaotic piles of scrolls. The deeper they went, the clearer the pattern became. It was chaos, but organized chaos. At the very back of the library, Eichenkiel’s massive living oak desk stood like the calm eye of the storm.

  Eichenkiel sat calmly, surrounded by open tomes and scrolls. Branches formed like arms extended from the desk’s sides, holding books open and calmly flipping pages as if he had half a dozen assistants.

  Dozens of goblins formed a loose queue, each presenting Eichenkiel with findings, most of them ridiculous.

  “Found picture of tree with five branches. Suspicious!”

  “Battle with three squirrels. Very fierce!”

  “Ancient poem about cheese. Secret code?”

  Eichenkiel simply nodded for some to leave their books or scrolls or gently send them back to reshelve them.

  Then Grrlka, the female goblin with the half missing ear and tiny spectacles, approached reverently, holding a thick, weathered book. “Found proper story,” she said. “Describes battle against hoarderscales. They had magic-user.”

  The library quieted, even the chittering goblins watching with interest.

  Grrlka continued, “Swarm defeated, yes. But… no mention of magic-user death. Unusual. Always victory songs, yes? Always someone ‘I killed big scary thing!’ But here? Nothing. Magic-user maybe escape.”

  Mirabelle, already leaning forward, adjusted her glasses. “That book is written in ancient Cathurian rune script. How did you…?”

  Grrlka puffed up proudly. “Clever goblin. Read many writings. Learn much. In honor of ancient Grrlka.” She pointed at her severed ear. “Cut ear in memory. Honor mother of goblin kingdom. First high matron. Many girl goblins take name, cut ear, study hard.”

  The surrounding goblins all nodded eagerly.

  “Best high matron.”

  “Smartest goblin.”

  “Cut ear, read books, bring honor.”

  Eichenkiel, still calm, finally spoke. “If a magic-user survived, it could have hidden another nest.” He turned a page slowly. “Well done, Grrlka.”

  The goblin beamed.

  As the commotion returned to its chaotic rhythm, Mirabelle wandered toward a nearby shelf, drawn the martial titles of the tomes. She plucked a worn, leather-bound book from the shelf. “Combat spells for healers?” she read aloud. “This might be useful.”

  Darken leaned over her shoulder and squinted at the faded text. They both studied the text for a while. Then his eyes widened. “Uh… Mirabelle? That’s not healing or combat magic.” He pointed at an intricate symbol. “That spell is using death-aspected mana. That’s necromancy.”

  Mirabelle blinked. She frowned and continued flipping through the pages. “Wait… some of these notations… they’re similar to the structures in my healing spells. The prayers, the gestures… they overlap.”

  Darken smirked. “Welcome to the shady side of medicine.”

  Weylan blinked. “Are you saying Lieselotte’s magic and necromancy are related?”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Darken crossed his arms. “Not unheard of. Some necromantic traditions started as attempts to cure death, not cause it. This technique here is using the methods of healing magic, but reverses them to cause harm. You can see the point in the structure chart where the mana flow turns in on itself and changes affinity.”

  Mirabelle hesitated. “But if our spells share roots… why does the church never mention this? When necromancers were once healers that who have strayed from the path, we should know.”

  Darken smirked. “History is written by the victors. Maybe it’s more convenient to label them as villains that came from somewhere else, instead of evolving from among the good folk.”

  Eichenkiel’s voice cut through the discussion like a blade. “Enough! I’m trying to work here.”

  All three turned. The librarian hadn’t moved from his seat, but his eyes glinted like polished amber.

  He closed one of his tomes with a deliberate snap. “If you really want to know: Necromancy evolved from healers who sought to heal death itself. Some were desperate. Others… ambitious. In time, the methods darkened. Healing and death became intertwined. What began with good intentions led to dangerous paths. I was alive, when honor failed them. When they lost their way. I wasn’t powerful enough, nor wise enough to stop them. Pallandur’s priests have always been the best healers under combat conditions. Golgoroth’s priests can heal even beasts and monsters. Lieselotte’s priests… were ever the most driven. Unwilling to accept defeat, even against death itself. They were the most ambitious. And the ones best at lying to themselves. At telling themselves they still had everything under control.”

  He gestured lazily toward the door. “And now, be like trees. Silent. And outside.”

  The goblins snickered and dutifully shooed them out.

  Darken stared at the closed door. “I liked him better before he kicked us out.”

  But Mirabelle barely heard them. Her eyes were locked on the book, and for a heartbeat, Weylan thought he saw something flicker behind them. Determination? Curiosity? Or something darker?

  Mirabelle whispered to herself, “Where did they go wrong? I will have answers.”

  Weylan shared a worried look with Darken. They would have to keep an eye on the priestess. Just in case.

  * * *

  While the others spread out and explored the campus, Ulmenglanz went and looked for a place to plant the sapling.

  The grove near the student dorms was quiet and calm. It would get lots of sunlight, even while shielded on two sides by two story dorm buildings. A small stream babbled quietly along the edge, feeding the lush undergrowth. It was a peaceful and somewhat forgotten corner of Wildeguard.

  Ulmenglanz knelt among the soft moss, the clay pot resting next to her. Around her, birds sang and small critters skittered through the brush, but she paid them little mind.

  The dryad’s expression was conflicted as she stared at the little tree. “You will likely do nothing,” she murmured to herself. “But... Malvorik has done much for me. I can let him try this. Even if it’s odd to create a seedling that’s not connected to a newly conceived dryad.”

  With practiced movements, she dug a hole and gently placed the clay pot with the sapling into the earth.

  Ulmenglanz brushed the last traces of soil from her hands and settled back on her heels, eyes fixed on the newly planted sapling. She watched in silence, waiting, hoping, for some subtle sign. A pulse of magic. A flicker of resonance. A familiar voice brushing the edge of her mind.

  Nothing. No spark. No stir. No greeting.

  With a quiet exhale, she turned her face to the west, letting the last rays of the sun warm her skin. For a while, she simply sat there in stillness, soaking in the golden light as the sun slipped slowly behind the academy walls.

  When the last sliver of daylight vanished, she rose, pulled her robe back over her shoulders, and walked away, leaving the little sapling behind in the fading glow.

  * * *

  Night draped itself over the academy like a heavy cloak. The stars and half-moon remained veiled behind drifting clouds, their light absent from the stone towers that loomed around the spawnpoint. The towers protecting the spawnpoint, and the academy from everything the stone platform might spawn, were still and silent. Guards high up in the towers made their rounds with practiced steps. The courtyard below glowed steadily with the warm shimmer of enchanted crystals and everlasting torches.

  Not far from the academy, just beyond the tree line where torchlight could not reach, a lone figure crouched in the shadows. From her bag of holding, she began to draw a strange cargo. Turtles, one after another. Their limbs were dry and chalky, their movements mechanical and unnaturally fast for their species. Atop each shell, affixed with a gleaming black resin, stood a thick candle of oily, pitch-dark wax.

  The figure produced a wand carved from yellowed bone and touched each wick as the creatures waddled away. A flicker, then shadowy flames sprang to life, not spreading light, but devouring it and releasing tendrils of thick, black smoke. With the magic complete, the undead turtles shimmered once and disappeared from sight.

  Their footsteps silent, they emerged from the forest in two groups and accelerated unnaturally, racing toward the towers. Once in place at the stone bases, they began circling, again and again. Smoke rose in tightening spirals, drawn upward in perfect coils. No alarms rang. No spells flared. The guards only blinked, staggered, sat down with furrowed brows… and slumped into sleep.

  The figure waited.

  Still as a stone, she watched the towers for movement, scanning every corner of light and shadow. Then, assured, she slid back her hood. Her face, lit faintly by moonlight slipping through the clouds, revealed pale skin and sharply pointed elven ears. A woman.

  From her bag she drew a small mirror and traced a sigil across its glass with two fingers. A pulse of invisible magic spread outward, once, then twice, before leaping along an unseen mana-line that intersected the place where she stood. The pulse raced away. Faster than thought, faster than light… and vanished into the weave of the world.

  Moments later, the spawnpoint lit up with a quiet hum.

  Dark silhouettes shimmered into being against the clouded sky. A small party had arrived. One of them stood out, with long ears that rose above her head, harefolk. Half-rabbit, half-human.

  Lyriel let her gaze drift across the group. One figure dominated the scene. A towering presence cloaked in a loose, shadowy robe, exuding an unsettling aura of dimensional magic. He, because she couldn't even imagine a woman of such proportions, was enormous, looming over her even while crouched. The very air around him felt warped. Was he somehow even larger than he appeared?

  Beside him stood a dark paladin clad in full plate, eyes sharp and restless, scanning the shadows for signs of a trap or ambush. His fiery orange hair glowed like embers in the torchlight.

  Next came a woman in a form-fitting robe with a scandalously plunging neckline. Clearly a sorceress judging by the mage staff with the sparkling ball on its top she held.

  The final member was an Anubier, unmistakable with the sleek jackal head atop a humanoid body. He exuded an air of wrongness to her elven senses.

  There was no doubt in her mind. Umbramar, the leader of the Brotherhood himself, had sent not only his personal secretary, slash bodyguard, but also his most elite team: The Harbingers. He was going all in on the information she’d provided.

  The elf hurried forward to meet them, lowering her head in a bow.

  “Dame Jezebel. Welcome to Wildeguard.”

  Jezebel descended from the stone platform, making even the hopping movements seem elegant. “Greetings, Lyriel. I see you’ve prepared the ground well.”

  “The guards are dreaming,” Lyriel replied, “and the artifact you entrusted me with is masking the area from all magical observation.”

  “Excellent.” Jezebel’s eyes turned toward the woods. “The information you brought is invaluable. We would never have managed to get here in time otherwise. We’ll proceed to the Wildewood and await the beginning of the quest. We will stay hidden unless there is an emergency. Nistrul has offered a bountiful reward if the item is offered as a sacrifice and defiled in his name. He should not mind if we keep a small part. If we also manage to gather the other ingredients…,” she smiled, a hint of ambition flickering behind her gaze. “…then we can also brew the elixier. Sold to the highest bidder, it will bring us riches enough to buy half a kingdom.”

  Lyriel grinned greedily: “Should we brew it ourselves or wait for her to do it for us?”

  “Master Umbramar has acquired the services of a master alchemist who is confident he can reconstruct the recipe. If she gets her hands on the ingredients, she will likely return to her fortress and brew it there. Even we won’t be able to penetrate the heart of her kingdom.”

  Judging by his condescending snort, the knight did not share her opinion.

  Jezebel ignored him. “We will use the time to hunt monsters, train and maybe get some intelligence on the goblins. I estimate it will be at least three weeks until the start of the quest. They will increase security at the spawnpoint any day now, so it has been crucial that we have arrived this early.”

  She pulled out an amulet identical to the Nistrul amulet Lyriel wore. “This amulet is blessed by Nistrul and enchanted to provide you with the silence of the grave and the stealth of a ghost. You may also keep the bag of holding.”

  Lyriel exchanged the amulets and bowed gratefully. She had not expected more than a few coins before her information was confirmed.

  Jezebel gave a subtle wink, signaling her team to leave the platform and melt into the woods. The ground gave a faint tremor as the hooded man stepped down beside her. One by one, the others disappeared among the trees, but Jezebel lingered.

  “How is your alchemical project going?”

  Lyriel hesitated. No one outside her small group was supposed to know about that. Now she understood why the Brotherhood had taken such an interest in her in the first place.

  “Well… it doesn’t seem to affect players, just as I suspected. As for NPCs, I’m still unsure. The first two formulations were too weak. Test subjects lost interest before we could observe any long-term effects. But the latest batch is promising.”

  Jezebel’s unnerving piercing eyes seemed to bore right into her soul, even though she smiled at her. “You thought you could use the brotherhoods resources for your little side hustle without us noticing? Don’t worry. We value ingenuity and initiative. Next time, check with me before doing something that could potentially draw attention at a much larger project.” She held her gaze for a few moments longer, then turned and followed her group.

  Lyriel watched after them for a while, then remembered her position and hurriedly picked up the turtles and stowed them back in her bag before sneaking away, back to the unwitting academy.