As the first light of dawn filtered through the grove, Ulmenglanz rose from her bed while her roommates still slept soundly and returned to the sapling. The clay pot, that had once housed it, was gone. Its dungeon formed clay dissolved into the earth, its form melted into the soil as if it had never existed.

  Aside from that, nothing had changed.

  She sighed softly, unfastened her robe, and let it fall in a quiet heap at her feet. With arms outstretched, she welcomed the morning sun. Warm rays caressed her skin, battling the bite of the autumn wind. But neither tree nor dryad shied from the cold. Such discomforts were for those without roots.

  With eyes closed, she stood still, breathing in rhythm with the rustling leaves around her, grounding herself in the shifting balance of season and light.

  She did not notice the student watching from a second-floor dorm window. He gawked for a moment, disappeared in a flurry of motion, and reappeared moments later with a cluster of wide-eyed classmates, all peering through the glass.

  When Ulmenglanz opened her eyes and slipped her robe back over her shoulders, she caught a flicker of movement near the dorm. A few silhouettes vanished clumsily behind curtains.

  Yes. It was time to head to class. She would probably be late already, but forests did not have timetables. Nor did they need them.

  * * *

  The lecture hall was old, even by Wildeguard standards. The stone benches were worn smooth by generations of bored students, and the walls were lined with faded tapestries depicting battles, treaties, and the occasional agricultural scene that somehow looked more violent than the battles.

  At the front stood the professor, an elf who looked like he hadn’t just seen centuries pass but had personally counted each day. His moss-green robes were threadbare, and his silver hair hung in limp strands. His eyes held the thousand-yard stare of someone who had long given up on enthusiasm.

  Without introduction, he began. “I am professor Tedwyn Dullmere. Welcome to your mandatory lesson about the geography and history of the region. You know, the boring stuff. You’ll need this for later. Or you won’t. Makes no difference.” His voice was a steady, sleep-inducing monotone.

  Weylan barely stifled a yawn. Darken already looked half-asleep.

  Professor Dullmere gestured vaguely at a map at the wall behind him. “To the west, you’ll find a land ruled by the centaur king. Mostly grasslands. Very tidy, very boring. Nothing of note ever happened there since the battle of the Dragon-Hydra against the Legion of Emerald. Beyond that, the Silvergrass Plains. Flat. Grassy. Occasionally windy.”

  Mirabelle’s hand shot up. “Professor, could you elaborate on…”

  “No.” Dullmere droned. “Where was I… Ah, yes. To the north, the Wildewood forest. Full of trees. Dangerous.” He paused. “Some students wander off and die there. Happens almost every year. North of the Wildewood are the lands now occupied by the goblins that call themselves the Great Goblin Empire. We are at war with them, but that should not concern you.”

  Several hands shot up urgently, but he ignored them.

  “To the east,” he continued, “The Kingdom of the king whose name cannot be spoken. Borders on the sea. Many rivers. Mostly fishing industry.”

  Now, even Darken blinked awake. “Is it an archmage that can hear his name spoken anywhere in the world?”

  Faya asked, “Is the king cursed?”

  The professor adjusted his glasses. “No. His name simply cannot be pronounced by anyone who hasn’t trained for several days.”

  Alina snorted. “You’re kidding.”

  Dullmere sighed. “You may of course try.”

  He waved at the blackboard and the name

  “King Brynffyll-draigfawrpendewrth-glyndorogofalch-gwyn-wynogadewraig,” appeared there. The professor didn’t even look at the text while he said it aloud in his droning voice without faltering once.

  Silence. No one even tried.

  Professor Dullmere nodded. “Yes. I thought so.”

  Darken whispered. “That sounded like you swallowed a whole bag of gravel.”

  Dullmere continued, unfazed. “It roughly translates to: From the hill valley of dragons the great chief of worth of the hidden cave proudly was named the white blessed courageous one. It does not make a lot of sense. Most sources claim the king is a revenant who stayed here after the Necromancer War. He is rumored to speak a language or maybe come from a land that is named Welsh. Very annoying person. Moving on.”

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  Several students were openly gaping.

  The professor simply droned on. “This region is known for its unpredictable weather.”

  He pointed to another area on the map. “To the south, the Lowlands. Hills. Mud. More hills. Unremarkable.” He paused briefly. “Home to two ancient battlefields, three sealed dungeons, and occasional outbreaks of the dancing curse.”

  Mirabelle held up her hands in exasperation. “And that’s unremarkable?”

  Dullmere didn’t acknowledge her. “In conclusion: things exist. Some of them may try to kill you. Learn where they are. Don’t go there. That is all for today.”

  He gathered his notes and shuffled toward the door.

  After a confused moment, the students objected.

  “Wait, that’s it? Oi! Come back here!” Alina protested.

  “Are you serious?” Mirabelle added.

  “We don’t even get information about the war with the Goblin Empire?” Weylan asked.

  Dullmere sighed heavily, turned around, and returned to his lectern. “Fine.”

  He gestured at the northern part of the map. “Following the Necromancer War, there were some changes among goblin tribes north of the Wildewood. Former male chieftains were replaced by much more intelligent females, calling themselves goblin matrons. Later, high matron Grrlka declared herself empress of the Great Goblin Empire. Ever since, the goblins have vastly increased in number and quality of their troops. Archer battalions with shortbows can darken the skies with arrows. Their accuracy is low, but that doesn’t matter much. Goblins also started to use various battle brews. We suspect they are primitive herbal variants of our alchemical potions, but they seem to work quite well. Berserker potions, various health and stamina brews, attribute enhancements and many variants of exploding firebombs. What was once an annoyance, became a real threat. The northern Wildewood is now firmly goblin-held.”

  He tapped the Wildewood section. “Crossing with armies is difficult. The forest itself is a natural barrier. That’s the main reason the conflict hasn’t turned into a full war. Yet.”

  Darken frowned. “And the academy?”

  Dullmere nodded. “Trains war mages specifically to hold the line. Without them, raiding parties would escalate. Goblins commonly attempt small raids, but the lightning moat around Wildeguard prevents direct assaults.”

  Mirabelle raised her hand again. “But what about this… dancing plague?”

  The professor exhaled. “Ah, yes. The Dancing Plague. Long ago, in a city called Strazborga, people danced uncontrollably. Couldn’t stop. Hundreds danced until they collapsed, even died. Happened again, sporadically, across history. Likely a curse. Or mass hysteria. Or both. No one knows.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Relevant? Barely. You won’t be dancing much in the academy. Hopefully.”

  “To the east again, the Centaur Steppe. Controlled by centaur tribes. Home to wildebeests.” He said the word like it tasted sour.

  “They are very ugly, very angry, black cows. Controlled by the centaurs. Makes the open plains unassailable. Unconquerable. Foolish to try. Centaurs can control and field herds several thousand strong. Nothing can stand against them on open field.”

  Faya held up her hand. “Are there any nice beasts in this area?”

  Dullmere adjusted his glasses again. “Yes. Wildewood has unicorns. Mysterious. Elusive. Majestic. You will never see one. Moving on.”

  Weylan whispered, “He says it like they’re common squirrels.”

  Half an hour into the lesson, the dryad appeared. She strolled in and took a seat. Dullmere ignored her late appearance. The remainder of the two-hour lesson followed the same pattern, with the students refusing to simply endure the monotony. Time and again, they interrupted Dullmere’s attempts to drone through his prepared notes, peppering him with pointed questions and curious remarks. Each inquiry forced him, often with a sigh and visible reluctance, to elaborate on details he clearly considered trivial but which the students found genuinely fascinating. Bit by bit, they extracted tales of ancient battles, strange occurrences, and forgotten kingdoms from the weary elf.

  Dullmere concluded, “There. Enough useless details you will immediately forget? Class dismissed.”

  The students waited for him to leave and then stood up, took up their notepads and searched the maps and charts on the walls for more relevant information.

  * * *

  Professor Dullmere shuffled through the winding corridors of the academy, his every step slow and burdened as if the sheer weight of student ignorance pressed on his shoulders. He ascended the creaking stone stairway with practiced indifference, reaching the heavy oak door of the teachers' lounge. With a final glance over his shoulder to make sure no eager students had trailed him, he slipped inside, and gave the room a quick survey.

  Only when he was certain that the gathered professors were alone did his whole posture shift. His hunched shoulders straightened, his lifeless frown melted into a wide grin, and he burst into laughter, warm and full-bodied.

  Around the room, the other teachers grinned knowingly and joined him. The lounge was a cluttered but comfortable place. A large hearth crackled beneath a mantle crowded with odd trophies: a bent dueling saber, an old staff with wilted vines, and what looked suspiciously like a petrified goblin head wearing a monocle.

  Professor Kaelthorne lounged by the fire, sharpening a dagger that had seen more wars than some kingdoms. “They really fall for it every year, do they?” she asked, amused but unsurprised.

  Dullmere wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Without fail. They almost dragged me back when I tried to leave.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I left an old notebook behind, too. Right in plain sight. I’m betting half of them are already feverishly copying it.” He chuckled darkly. “They’ll be selling the 'secrets' of the Boring Stuff to every student with two coppers by sunrise.”

  Professor Evanesceniel faded into view beside the fireplace, teacup in hand. “Oh good,” she said dryly, “the academy’s black market of poorly understood historical trivia will be thriving again.”

  Kaelthorne snorted. “The book goblins will probably be the first buyers,” she mused. “They’ve been bartering for lecture notes since before I was appointed.”

  Professor Voynich chuckled without looking up from a delicate alchemical apparatus he was cleaning. “And none of them will realize that Dullmere’s ‘forgotten’ notes contain some cleverly falsified stories.”

  Kaelthorne snorted. “You’re still feeding them the tale about the Silvergrass plains’ ‘occasional spontaneous combustion,’ aren’t you?”

  Dullmere grinned. “They’ll learn eventually. Or they won’t. Either way, it keeps them guessing.”