Wildeguard’s eastern annex was shaped like a crescent, its upper floors a winding promenade of light-filled galleries, trophy rooms, and magically shielded display halls. This was where students came not to learn, but to dream.

  The walls shimmered faintly with passive warding magic, and display cases glittered beneath protective runes. Inside them, trophies floated midair: enchanted weapons, spell-forged relics, rare tomes. The rewards offered each term to the best of the best.

  Professor Kaelthorne’s heels clicked down the tiled corridor as she led the class.

  “Now that you’ve seen how our point system works, these,” she said, without breaking stride, “are your incentives.”

  The group murmured with awe as they passed a levitating wand humming with flame, a set of bracers etched with prayer sigils, and a polished orb that changed color depending on who stared at it.

  “At the end of the semester, students may pick one artifact. The students with the highest points will have first pick,” Kaelthorne said. “All artefacts have a minimum point value. Points are earned through combat duels, alchemical precision, tactical performance in Knights and Monks, and... not setting the lab on fire.”

  She gave a sharp glance in Darken’s direction. He feigned innocence.

  Weylan, trailing near the back, tried not to look too out of place. He had lost badly at Knights and Monks. Alchemy wasn’t much better. Only the dueling arena had gone decently for him — but it wasn’t enough. On the projected leaderboard floating in the air, he sat somewhere near the bottom.

  Valen Aldrich, of course, was first.

  Weylan didn’t need to look to know the smug noble was admiring the long display case in the center of the room, the Rapier of Rulership, silver-bladed, with a ruby set into the hilt. It radiated command and drama.

  But Weylan’s eyes were drawn to something else.

  In the far corner, dimmer than the rest, hung a long, dark-gray cloak. Most of the others hadn’t noticed it. In fact, several passed by without even glancing.

  But Weylan stopped.

  The light didn’t reflect off it properly. Shadows clung to it, drinking in illumination. It was embroidered in faded thread that flickered… no… they responded to his presence, as he stepped closer.

  Assassin-class equipment detected.

  Other items flickered in and out of visibility like a half-remembered dream, hinting at the rest of the set. Of these, he already had the Assassin’s Boots, the Gloves and the Dagger.

  To anyone else, the cloak looked like discarded scrap. To Weylan, it glowed with purpose. Armor sets were rare, as he learned from steward Jago. Sets had two great abilities. Once completed, each piece got a boost in power and performance and even better, they grew with the user as he advanced in tier. Foregoing the lengthy and expensive task of upgrading your equipment every tier was a tremendous boost. His master had never heard of someone completing a set within Journeyman tier, but he’d also never even heard rumors of getting a set piece at level one, like he did with his Dagger.

  He tapped the plaque. The reward cost flickered.

  Cloak of Shadesmist

  First Semester Reward

  Points Required: 150

  Restricted to Shadow-Magic users

  Weylan exhaled. Quietly.

  He was going to need a miracle. Or at least… better grades.

  After some discussion about the finer points of the scoring system, which boiled down to “Professors can do pretty much whatever they want.”, Kaelthorne led them to the stairs to the lower gallery: “Your next lesson will be after lunch, so you can spend the rest of the time until then as you please. I would recommend using the time to have a look at the paintings in the gallery down there. I did see professor Dullmere enter and he’s required to answer questions while working here as a curator. There’s just one exit and I’ll be here making sure he doesn’t weasel out of his monthly obligation. We’ll meet after lunch at the arena in sport appropriate clothing.”

  * * *

  On the way back through the lower gallery, the class passed through the Hall of Conflicts, where paintings of past wars and magical catastrophes lined the walls.

  Faya lingered at a watercolor titled “The Curse of the Moonfeather”. A half-shifted goose stood tall, wings raised, teeth too sharp for any normal beak. “Weregeese,” she whispered. “I didn’t think those were real.”

  Darken shivered. “I hope they aren’t. That thing looks vicious.”

  Alina pointed to some paintings next to it. “Oi, look at those. There’s a whole series of paintings of werebeasts. All kinds of them. That were-cow looks like a minotaur, and that’s a… were-hedgehog? Wow. You could kill someone with one of those spines.”

  Weylan walked along the gallery, getting more confused by the minute. He’d heard about were-wolves, but other were-creatures? He stopped at one painting and whistled. “Well, that were-swan-maiden seems quite friendly.”

  Mirabelle scoffed. “Even normal swans can and will break your arm if they feel threatened or just plain don’t like you. Look at her breast muscles supporting both arms and wings… Oh, you are already looking.”

  Hasty steps could be heard from near the exit, then the voice of professor Kaelthorne. Moments later a dejected looking professor Dullmere shuffled over to them. He looked at the paintings they were discussing and sighed. Then he started speaking in his usual monotone voice. “You’ve discovered the series of paintings about the Therianthrope lake. Well done.”

  As he tried to weasel away, Kane stood in his path and glared at him until he turned back around. “A Therianthrope is…”

  Mirabelle interrupted him. “Any kind of humanoid that can shapeshift into an animal.”

  He blinked, then nodded. “Well, yes. Of course. A week’s travel to the south of here lies Lake Metatherios, which is surrounded by the country of Metathria. People born there have a high chance to acquire the ability to shapeshift into one specific animal after puberty. In their home area, they can activate the shifting at will, but if they leave, they will only transform at the night of the full moon. The Metathrians are a proud and isolated people. You will never meet one.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  On the opposite wall, a grand oil painting showed a mounted knight driving a shining blade downward. The target: a goblin queen with splintered crown and left ear both flying from the strike. A banner beneath read: End of the Great Reign. The Fall of Queen Grrlka the Wise.

  Mirabelle wrinkled her nose. “Charming.”

  Dullmere took one look at the painting and scoffed. “End of the Great Reign. You’d wish.” He turned to the class, now gathered around him, all eyes fixed on him with anticipation. Then he faced the painting.

  "The united armies of the northern kingdoms did defeat the goblins, and queen Grrlka did surrender. That much is true. But six years later, the goblins returned. Stronger than before. At the time, the human kingdoms had barely begun to recover from the Ten-Year War, yet the goblins came in greater numbers than ever. That was also when they first began using battle brews on a large scale. The human kingdom of Solfriemaneder, which lay just north of the Wildewood, fell within a month."

  Alina pointed at a painting covering a whole wall. It pulsed with faint magic. The figures were slowly moving. It was showing monks in black robes clashing with knights in full plate armor in many different color schemes. In the top of the middle, a monk and a knight collided at the apex of their jump, lighting up the sky as mana-charged fist met enchanted gauntlet.

  The title read: The Fall of the Ashenhill Monastery, Year of the Dying Crane.

  The priestess studied it in awe. “Do you know anything about this battle?”

  “I teach geography,” Dullmere said flatly.

  “And history,” Mirabelle countered.

  “Boring history.”

  “Not today.”

  Dullmere sighed like a man cornered by destiny and overly curious children. “Fine. You have exactly one question.”

  “Tell us everything about this picture,” Faya said brightly.

  His shoulders slumped. He sat down on a bench and removed his spectacles.

  “The Ashenhill Monks,” he began, “believe magic comes from within. From refinement. Self-mastery. Every breath, every heartbeat, every movement is a chance to focus mana and sharpen the soul. To walk the inner path.”

  “Cool,” said Alina said quietly.

  “They train in silence, channel their power through thought, and value personal freedom above all else. They believe a well-aligned spirit can withstand any storm, or reshape it.”

  “And the knights?” Alina asked.

  “The Knights of the Order of the Arcane believe in civilization,” Dullmere said. “Order. Hierarchy. Duty. Magic is a tool, they say. Something to be structured, wielded, controlled. Their spells are encoded into their armor, their weapons, their tactics.”

  “Arcane infrastructure,” Mirabelle murmured. “Like spell matrices and runic enchantments.”

  He nodded. “Their strength comes not from singularity, but from unity. Shields locked together. Mana channeled in formation.”

  Faya frowned. “That sounds noble. So why did they fight?”

  “Because the monks refused conscription. Refused central oversight. Refused, in many ways, to be predictable.” He looked at them all. “The knights wanted control. The monks wanted freedom. Both had power. Neither would yield.”

  Weylan stared at the ground. Something in that tugged at him.

  “Wildeguard joined the knights' cause,” Dullmere added after a pause. “We still train by their doctrine.”

  Selvara cocked her head. “Did they ever make peace?”

  “No,” Dullmere said. “But they did, eventually, learn not to kill each other.”

  A silence settled. Alina held up her hand. “How long ago did both sides disappear?”

  Weylan answered before Dullmere could. “They didn’t. At least their classes exist to this day. I’ve met both of them.”

  The professor raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed. Not many southerners know about those two organizations.”

  The alleged house servant shrugged. “I’ve fought a mana-adept once. She was some kind of bodyguard to a necromancer. My friend Trulda killed her when she got overconfident and thought she could just take a strike from a mere barmaid. That was one mean hare-folk.”

  Aldrich chuckled. “You almost got me to believe that story. Hare-folk are pacifists.”

  “This one surely wasn’t. She was a revenant. They don’t much care about the culture of the races they imitate.”

  The professor nodded thoughtfully. “They usually don’t, that is true. Where did you meet a knight? They don’t usually travel that far south.”

  Weylan smiled at the memory. “Another revenant, but she was one of the good ones. A true hero. Her class was Arcane Knight when she helped us destroy a Shraal nest, but then she got promoted or something. Her armor got even more fancy and she told me she now was an Arcane Paladin.”

  The professor whistling impressed did not fit his usual demeanor. “Well, I hope you will tell us all the complete story in one of my next lessons. Until then, I can tell you some boring facts. The Order of Arcane Knights is still active,” he said. “Their High Bastion stands in the capital city of the United Kingdoms. They operate as magical auxiliaries to the Crown’s military. A small chapter is stationed right here at Wildeguard, training future battlemages.”

  “And the monks?” Mirabelle asked.

  “Scattered, but not gone,” Dullmere said. “The Ashenhill Monks never centralized. Their monasteries are few, and far between. Difficult to reach by design. You’ll find them where magic flows untamed and society does not.”

  He raised a hand and ticked them off slowly:

  “The Monastery of Still Waters is carved into the cliffs above the Glasseye Fjord in the far northwest, the Sanctum of Hollow Wind is perched on the Veiled Ridge, hidden beneath constant stormclouds, the Temple Rooted Below is a half-buried stronghold somewhere in the Verdanthorn Jungle, inside a mysterious crater. And the nearest: Five Ways Monastery, northeast of the Wildewood. It sits where five old trade routes used to converge. Before trade dried up after the rise of the Goblin Empire and the wild reclaimed them.”

  Faya whispered to Mirabelle, “None of these sound inviting.”

  “They aren’t,” Dullmere said, not bothering to turn. “Their entrance policy is strict. But if you pass their trials, they may let you train with them.”

  Alina raised an eyebrow. “How do you know so much about them?”

  “I taught at Five Ways for eight years,” Dullmere said. “Before Wildeguard decided my methods were ‘too slow’ and my lectures ‘too soft-spoken.’” He replaced his spectacles. “Now I teach boring things. Like history.”

  The students went quiet.

  “…It’s not boring,” Weylan muttered.

  Dullmere said nothing, but for just a moment, his mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a smile.

  “Do you have any more questions about the monk and knight conflict?”

  Darken raised a hand. “Which side invented magical acupuncture?”

  “Leave,” Dullmere said, standing.

  “But…”

  “Leave, all of you. Lecture over.”

  Kane tried to stop him again, looming over him and cracking his knuckles. Dullmere looked up and his voice turned from annoyed to unexpectedly threatening. “Are you trying to physically intimidate me, student Kane?”

  The mountain of muscle shrugged, which caused a chain reaction of movement down his body.

  Faya whistled.

  The professor ignored her while staring at Kane unblinking. “I did mention I taught eight years in Five Ways, did I?”

  The muscle mage shrugged. “Teaching history isn’t very impressive.”

  Dullmere subtly changed his stance and lifted his hands, which were now surrounded by a faint shimmer.

  A good fifth of the students instantly perked up and changed their stance. Some clearly ready to run, others to draw weapons and fight.

  Aldrich stepped back and instinctively put his hand on the rapier he was now carrying everywhere.

  Selvara perked up and looked around alarmed as even without danger sense, she picked up on the sudden alertness of every single student that had it or something comparable.

  The professor’s tone was still completely relaxed. “I taught advanced mana-enhanced unarmed combat techniques.”

  Kane stared at him for a moment, then bowed respectfully and stepped aside.

  Dullmere gave him a friendly nod and passed without further comment.

  The students stared after him. Weylan was the first to find his voice as he turned to Alrich. “Good instincts. Didn’t expect that from a noble.”

  “Then you clearly have no idea about life in the aristocracy. Danger Sense and Poison Sense are the two most common feats among nobles.” He nodded to Erik, who had trouble dismissing the defensive frost shield he’d conjured without drawing attention. The round shield anchored on his left arm finally dissolved into cool air.

  * * *

  The class dispersed to each look at different paintings.

  Weylan lingered near the tapestry of the Ashenhill campaign, arms crossed, eyes drifting between the painted monks and knights frozen mid-strike. He felt a quiet tension raise inside him, that dull pressure of knowing exactly how far behind he was.

  “Staring at them won’t raise your score,” said a voice beside him. Mirabelle. She was studying the same painting, head tilted, eyes sharp behind her glasses.

  “I wasn’t thinking about my score…” Weylan began.

  She waved him off. “You were. I saw that face. The brooding one.”

  He said nothing.

  Mirabelle glanced at him sidelong, then back to the scene. “I like this one,” she said. “The monks lost, technically. But not really. Everyone remembers them more than the knights.”

  “Why?” Weylan asked.

  “Because the knights did what they were supposed to. The monks did something impossible.”

  Weylan turned slightly toward her. “Are you trying to motivate me?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m telling you why I’m going to win.”

  That caught him off guard. “You care about the prizes?”

  Mirabelle snorted. “No. The bracers are nice, I guess. But I want to top the board. Just once. Just to know I can. So I stop wondering if I’m just the priestess who reads too much.”

  She looked at him fully now. “Don’t you want to know? What it feels like to beat them all?”

  Weylan hesitated. “I just want a powerful artefact.”

  She smiled slightly. “Then maybe we both get what we want.”

  Before he could reply, she turned and walked off toward the rest of the class, scribbling something in her notebook as she went.

  Weylan looked back at the painting.

  The monks, outnumbered, outmatched, but still standing.

  He wasn’t sure if she’d just inspired him… or issued a challenge.

  He started after the other students to get something to eat before the next lesson. His timetable listed it as “Physical Training”, followed by a big plus sign. Not ominous. Not ominous at all.