"Nothing says ’we expect you to die’ quite like being assigned to Team 12."
***
"Here are the rules, since I know most of you can’t be trusted to rember complex instructions."
Professor De Clare began counting on her fingers with exaggerated care. Each gesture slow and deliberate. Treating us like particularly dim children.
Which, to be fair, was probably accurate for at least half the room.
"First. You’ll be dropped into the Thornwick Goblin Warren in teams of four. The warren has been divided into sections. Each team will be assigned their own hunting ground. You won’t encounter other teams unless sothing goes very wrong."
She paused. Let that sink in.
"Which it will. For so of you."
Comforting.
"Second. You have six hours to clear your assigned section and retrieve the objective markers. Six hours. Not seven. Not eight. If you’re still underground when the ti expires, you’ll be retrieved." Another pause. "Assuming there’s anything left to retrieve."
"Third. Failure to return within the ti limit results in automatic expulsion." She smiled at this, and the expression held no warmth whatsoever. "Not that it matters. Anyone who can’t survive six hours against goblins isn’t going to survive a sester here anyway. Consider it a rcy."
"Fourth."
Her smile widened. Showed teeth.
"’Accidental’ deaths will be investigated thoroughly. So if you’re planning to eliminate rivals, be creative about it. I have paperwork to fill out when students die, and I hate paperwork."
The last comnt drew shocked gasps from so students. Mostly the naive ones who hadn’t yet internalized how Solare actually operated.
A few of the more politically savvy students exchanged knowing glances. House Vermillion’s section remained motionless. Unsurprised.
"What?" De Clare’s voice carried a note of dark amusent. "You think I don’t know how these things usually go? At least half of you are here because your families want you to fail spectacularly. The other half are here because your families want soone else to fail spectacularly. I’m just acknowledging reality."
I appreciate the honesty. Really. It’s refreshing.
She let the words hang in the air. Then she gestured toward the wall behind her, where a magical projection began forming in swirls of blue and gold light.
Nas appeared in neat columns. Organized by team assignnts. The letters glowed against the dark stone.
"Team assignnts are non-negotiable. Don’t bother whining about wanting to switch. I don’t care if your best friend is on a different team or if you have ’personality conflicts’ with your assigned partners." Her eyes swept the room again. Daring anyone to object. "Learn to work together or die separately. The goblins don’t care about your feelings."
My eyes found the list imdiately. Scanned for the nas I knew mattered.
Team 1 read like a collection of legendary heroes in training. "The Scions" was printed beneath the team number. An informal designation that had apparently beco official.
Leo von Valerius led the group. His na printed in bold letters that seed to glow with their own light. As if even the magical projection recognized his protagonist status. Elena Morgenthorne followed. Then Gareth Stoneheart. Then Lysander Ashford.
Every one of them destined for greatness in the original story.
They would breeze through their assigned section, of course.
The narrative demanded it.
Whatever goblins they faced would serve as practice dummies for impressive combat scenes. Obstacles to be overco with style and minimal actual danger.
The protagonist’s team always survived the tutorial mission.
Must be nice.
Team 7 made my stomach clench.
Rhys Blackwood’s na sat at the top. Followed by three others I recognized from my knowledge of the novel.
Petra Goldhand. A miner’s daughter with fire magic and callused hands from years of work in the forges.
Finn Redbrook. A shepherd’s son with basic healing abilities and a kind heart that would get him killed.
Jorik Ironwill. A blacksmith’s apprentice with more courage than sense and a tendency to charge into situations he couldn’t handle.
In the original tiline, all four would die in the goblin warren. Their deaths would be blad on bad luck. A collapsed tunnel. An unexpected surge of goblin reinforcents. A tragic accident that no one could have predicted or prevented.
The scene had been written to inspire grief in the protagonist. To remind him that even heroes couldn’t save everyone.
It was all lies, of course. Every word of it.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
I found my own assignnt near the bottom of the projection.
Team 12.
Displayed in letters only slightly less dim than the ones surrounding it.
Alongside my na were Marcus Vellum, Thomlin Ashworth, and Seraphina Valois.
A team of misfits and outcasts. Exactly what I’d expected. The sort of team that existed to fill space in the roster. To make up numbers while the important students claid the glory.
Let’s see what we’re working with.
Marcus would provide tactical knowledge from his noble education. Assuming his nervous disposition didn’t get in the way.
Thomlin had combat training even if his confidence was shattered. Muscle mory that might kick in when survival demanded it.
And Seraphina’s healing abilities would be invaluable. Her analytical mind an asset if I could steer her attention away from questions about my own inconsistencies.
More importantly, none of them were marked for death in the original story.
Team 12 had been a footnote. Barely ntioned. Completing their assessnt without incident and fading into the background where extras belonged.
Perfect.
I can keep them alive while positioning myself to save Team 7.
The challenge would be timing. The warren’s sections were separate. Interfering in another team’s area would draw exactly the kind of attention I needed to avoid.
I would have to be creative. Find angles the narrative hadn’t accounted for. Exploit the gaps between what the story expected and what was actually possible.
One week to figure out how to save four people without anyone noticing.
No pressure.
Movent in my peripheral vision caught my attention.
Vance Thorne lounged three rows ahead. Surrounded by his House Argent teammates. His sandy blonde hair ticulously coiffed into that deliberately "windswept" style that probably took him half an hour to perfect.
He sat with the lazy confidence of soone who had never faced a real threat in his privileged life. One arm draped over the back of his chair. Legs stretched out to take up as much space as possible.
He’d been assigned to Team 3. Naturally. A solid group with both impressive combat potential and the right political connections to ensure their success.
When he noticed my attention, he turned in his seat with exaggerated slowness. The motion was deliberate.
The smile he gave was a masterpiece of controlled malice.
It started at the corners of his mouth. A slight twitch of movent. Spread with glacial deliberation across his face. His lips pulled back to show teeth that glead in the hall’s filtered light.
A predator’s display. A promise of violence to co.
But the smile never reached those flat, muddy brown eyes. They remained cold throughout the performance. Empty of everything except promised pain.
He held my gaze for several long, uncomfortable seconds. Let the unspoken threat hang between us.
He was savoring this mont. Savoring my imagined fear as I squird under his stare.
In his mind, I was already broken. Already defeated. Just too stupid to realize it yet.
Still angry about the spar, are we?
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