Chapter Eighty-Six: High Council

  As they arrived back to the campus, they drew more than a few stares. It wasn’t hard to see why. Blood, dirt, and exhaustion clung to them like a second skin, and none of them had bothered to do anything about it. They were too numb, too spent, to care.

  Students gawked as they passed, their eyes wide, faces a mix of shock and something close to fear. They looked at Jace and the others like they were a war party returning—not with fanfare, but with the grim echoes of whatever they’d faced still hanging around them.

  A teacher spotted them—Frost. She cut across the courtyard, her expression a blend of curiosity and something close to irritation.

  “What in the name of Heracles have you gotten yourselves into?” she said, her voice sharp but edged with concern. Molly trailed behind her.

  “An odd smell,” Molly said, her tone matter-of-fact, her nose wrinkling slightly. Her expression shifted, worry clouding her eyes as she steadied them, into an almost knowing look, as if she was all too familiar with the scent of death to ignore it.

  Frost shook her head, pulling a glowing blue crystal from her inventory, the soft light pulsing between her fingers. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

  She waved the crystal over them, and instantly, the grime vanished. The dirt, the blood, even the smell—all of it disappeared in a rush of magic. Their gear looked pristine again, though still worn, the fabric frayed and marked with slashes.

  “Much better,” Frost said, nodding in approval, though her eyes held a thousand questions she wasn’t ready to ask.

  Jace wasted no time, his voice steady though exhaustion hung on every word. “We need to see Theon.”

  She raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp enough to draw blood. “I’ll assume you mean Archmage Laviette. And tell me, what could a few students possibly need from him that’s so urgent?”

  Jace straightened, his eyes steady. “I’m afraid that’s something only he should hear first. Trust me, it’s important. We need to see him.”

  “Are we sure we can trust her?” Ell murmured, barely audible.

  Jace leaned in, whispering back, “We have to trust someone. And she doesn’t have any of the signs we’ve been seeing.”

  Dex piped up with his usual bluntness. “Any wild mood swings recently?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, her lips pursing. “I’ve never—what an impertinent question.”

  “Please,” Jace cut in, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. “We need to speak with him. Can you at least tell us where he is?”

  She regarded them for a moment, her silence heavy as she weighed her options. Finally, she shook her head, her expression softening slightly, though her tone remained firm. “You’ll have to wait. He’s in a meeting with the Council. One I’m now late for, thanks to you.”

  “This is vital,” Jace said, his voice urgent. “The school is under attack.”

  Her eyes flicked to Ell, appraising, skeptical. “Evidence. I assume you have it?”

  Ell hefted the bag, dropping it with a dull thud at her feet. She undid the latch, the contents spilling open just enough to reveal the horror within.

  “Don’t touch it,” Jace warned softly. “Just attempt to Inspect it.”

  She hesitated, then leaned down, her face blanching as her eyes went wide. “I see,” she murmured, her earlier skepticism dissolving into something graver. “This way.”

  She led them through the winding paths of the campus, past buildings that loomed tall and unfamiliar, until they arrived at a secluded section. Jace had never been here before—a faculty-only office marked with a sign that read Council Members Only. A shimmering barrier of magic danced across the doorway.

  She waved her hand, and the barrier flickered, then fizzled out, leaving a gap just wide enough for them to step through. The moment they entered, the air hit them—thick with tension, loud voices overlapping in a barrage of shouting.

  “Outrageous!” Dranice snapped, his eyes blazing. “The Winter Games haven’t been canceled in over four hundred years—not for war, not for the Dark One, and certainly not because Travelers are having trouble returning. If anything, we need them now more than ever!”

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  Brutus’s brow furrowed, his voice a low rumble. “And you’d risk the lives of these students?”

  “That’s right, they are students. Not children.” Dranice scoffed. “What good would coddling them do? Have you seen the way they act? Disobeying orders, running off into who-knows-where without a second thought. They act like they are still immortal–like this is all some silly game. They need discipline, they need structure—something to unify them before they scatter like leaves in the wind. The Games provide that. You, of all people, should understand the value of tempering iron.”

  Brutus crossed his arms, his face a mix of frustration and concern. “Iron can break, Dranice. Push them too hard and they shatter. The Games are a crucible, but these aren’t ordinary times. They need to survive, not be thrown into a fire just to see if they can make it out intact.”

  Dranice’s gaze hardened, his jaw set stubbornly. “Survival is exactly what they need to learn. The world isn’t going to slow down or show mercy. You think you’re protecting them, Brutus, but you’re only delaying the inevitable.”

  Brutus shook his head. “Pushing them into the storm too soon is no better. They need time to be ready.” Professor Brutus stood, his face flushed an uncomfortable shade of pink, his fists clenched as though he was holding back a storm of words.

  On the opposite side, Professor Dranice Thorne, the Master of Games, sat forward and stiff in his chair. His beard hung like an untamed river cascading over a mouth pulled into a deep, etched scowl. It felt like a warning, one that made Jace straighten instinctively, a chill brushing the back of his neck.

  “That’s quite enough for now, Professors,” the Archmage interjected, his tone brooking no argument. “We can continue this discussion later. At the moment, it appears we have visitors.”

  Professor Orion sat on his haunches beside him, his sleek, dark fur ruffled and disrupted by a bandage wound around his side. His steely eyes met Jace’s, a watchful calm masking whatever pain or exhaustion lay beneath.

  At the head of the table sat Archmage Theon Laviette, his presence commanding every shadow in the room. His expression was stern, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as they appraised the newcomers. He didn’t speak—didn’t need to. The stillness of his gaze did all the talking.

  Silence spread across the council as the door closed behind Jace and his group with a soft thud, their eyes fixing on the intruders like predators assessing potential prey. The tension prickled along Jace’s skin, and he took a careful step forward, feeling the eyes—watchful, critical—like a dozen arrows aimed straight at him.

  No one spoke for a long moment.

  Blackwood, who had been silently observing, finally spoke up, his brow furrowed. “What’s all this about? And why are these students here?”

  “Ah, now that is a tale worth knowing.” The Archmage’s tone softened, though a sense of gravity remained. “First, I owe you all an apology. For the past few months, Professor Frost and I have embarked on a secret quest. The secrecy of this quest, I admit, is something I must seek your forgiveness for. But I trust you will understand once I explain.”

  He paused, letting his words sink in. “Before this semester began, I started noticing strange signs around the campus. Individually, they were nothing remarkable—small things, almost mundane. But when seen together, they formed a troubling picture. Many of you know my history with the Dark One,” he said, his voice hardening, “once upon a time, he was a friend. A mentor. Before he... changed.”

  A murmur spread through the room. The mention of the Dark One brought a cold chill, and even Jace could feel it in the tension that rippled through the crowd.

  “His attacks have always been direct,” the Archmage continued. “An overwhelming onslaught of undead and death, each of our fallen turned into another weapon against us.”

  “We do not need a lesson in our own history,” Dranice Thorne interrupted, his tone clipped.

  “Too true, Dranice,” he replied with a slight nod. “But what you may not know is this—I suspect his methods have evolved. He knows he cannot attack us directly. Our defenses are too strong for that, and he learns. He adapts. He may be cruelty incarnate, but he is far from incapable of change.”

  He gestured broadly, the sleeves of his robes moved like billowing clouds. “With the incident involving the Sand Dome, I had my suspicions confirmed. I began to notice a handful of students acting strangely. It was never a single blatant incident, just whispers of something off. Something insidious. When pieced together, the evidence painted a concerning picture.” He paused, letting his words hang in the air. “I suspect possessions.”

  A collective intake of breath filled the chamber. The assembled council members shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Even Blackthorn’s usually stern expression seemed to soften into something somber, pensive.

  Dranice scoffed, shaking his head. “Possessions would have been detected. The Hearth Stone is a safeguard against anyone possessed—it would have caught them.”

  “Oh yes,” the Archmage nodded, a thin smile on his lips, “it is true that fully possessed individuals would be unable to pass through the Hearth Stone’s wards. But I am not speaking of traditional possession. I speak of something more cunning. Possessions initiated here, within our boundaries, from the inside.” He turned to the students who stood nearby. “And these young ones may have brought us the evidence we need.”

  He stood and stepped forward, holding out a hand. “May I?” he asked gently. Ell nodded, handing him the bag, her eyes widening as she watched.

  The Archmage extended his other hand, his shard glowing with ethereal light. Threads of luminous energy coiled outwards, forming translucent hands that gently took hold of the items from within the bag. The cursed objects floated out—bloody packages and dark talismans—and settled on the table before them. They seemed clean, almost polished, despite the stains of dried blood, as if the evil within them refused to sully their surface.

  The council members leaned forward, their eyes wide. Molly, who had been silent throughout, stood with her mouth slightly open, the color draining from her face.

  A hush fell over the room as the Archmage looked up. “These,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence, “are the tools of the Dark One’s new game. A subtle infiltration, right under our noses. We have a fight ahead of us—not against a horde at our gates, but an enemy that already walks among us.”

  They all gasped, the gravity of his words settling over them like a shadow.