The afterglow of victory was a dangerous thing.
Not because of the pride, the swelling sense of accomplishnt, or even the whispered praises echoing through the academy halls.
No, the danger ca from what *followed* it.
The silence.
The waiting.
The mont when the wolves, previously content to lounge in their velvet dens, finally began to circle with sharpened teeth.
I stood in the faculty atrium with my hands behind my back as the High Magister’s personal crow delivered a crimson-sealed envelope directly into my palm.
Not a sound in the room. Not from Roderick, who sipped his tea with suspicious calm. Not from Gale, who smirked like soone had bribed a jury. Not even from the fireplace, whose embers sputtered out the mont the seal broke.
The letter was brief. Chilling.
___
"Instructor Drelmont.
The High Council requests your presence tomorrow at noon for a formal review of your instructional conduct. Bring docuntation. Bring witnesses.
— Archivist Vellis, Sectarian Review Division."
___
It was less of a letter and more of a noose.
Gale leaned over, pretending to inspect a tea biscuit.
"Quite the performance your little circus put on yesterday. Inspiring, even. Almost makes forget your history of... how shall I put it... systemic underperformance."
I didn’t answer.
Mostly because I was deciding whether accidentally breaking his fingers with a rune-inscribed clipboard would qualify as a war cri.
"Do be careful, Lucian," he continued. "The higher you climb, the more fragile your footing. And gravity is such a ruthless instructor."
"Jealousy is an ugly perfu, Gale," I muttered. "You’ve drenched yourself."
He actually snorted.
I walked out without another word. Because honestly, any longer in that room and I might’ve strangled soone with a conjugation scroll.
Back in My Quarters,
The door clicked shut behind , and I exhaled as the runes I had painstakingly woven into the fra flickered to life—anti-surveillance, spatial distortion, and my personal favorite: sound masking via illusory rain.
I lit a candle.
Then threw the envelope into the fla.
It hissed like a wounded snake before crumbling into soot.
The Spiral Veil. That damn phrase had appeared in the system log again. Hidden behind the event notifications after the tournant. I had tried accessing it, digging through the command prompts. Nothing. Just red static and a warning:
["Administrator Access Required. Corruption Detected."]
Fun.
I turned back to the Grimoire of Patterns—the one "useless" tool that had beco my lifeline. The pages had shifted again. The ink no longer bled; it whispered.
One pattern repeated itself across six pages: RED STRINGS.
Not literal thread. *Connections.* Interwoven fates.
Sothing was tightening.
And I was in the middle.
Noon.
I stood before the seven glass thrones of the Sectarian Review Division. Behind them lood obsidian mirrors that shimred with mory and magic, projecting my history, my failures, my disgrace.
And yet, there I stood in full academic regalia.
Platinum coat. Cyan-etched rune cuffs. Polished boots. I looked like a man about to receive a dal—not a guillotine.
A familiar voice rang out.
"Councilor Ennon, reporting for oversight duty."
Roderick entered, stone-faced.
Right behind him, to everyone’s surprise, ca a girl in a black-and-gold uniform with a bandaged wrist and a book tucked under one arm.
Mira.
She t my eyes with her usual half-lidded boredom.
"Professor asked for witnesses," she said, chewing gum like she owned the courtroom. "So here I am."
The silence cracked like thunder.
One of the councilors—a lean woman with antler-like mana extensions curling from her temples—raised a brow. "You summoned a *student* for defense?"
"Not summoned," I replied. "*Invited*. My class is best qualified to testify on my teaching efficacy."
They exchanged glances.
Then the interrogation began.
It lasted three hours.
They combed through attendance logs, battle evaluations, rune docuntation. They asked why I had replaced traditional dueling stances with practical scenario combat. Why I taught rune patterns in poetry form. Why I graded with titles like "Almost Competent" and "Congratulations, You Didn’t Die."
They brought up Felix. Of course they did.
"Is it true that one of your students triggered a localized magical catastrophe during alchemy class?"
"Yes."
"And you... passed him?"
"He survived. That counts."
They brought up Cassandra.
"You allowed a student with incomplete background verification to remain enrolled?"
"She attends. She excels. Should I expel her for being an enigma?"
They brought up Gale’s letter—he had reported "thodological anomalies." Naturally.
I smiled through it.
Every word.
Because I had one trump card.
Results.
I laid the results of the Convergence tournant before them.
"Class C. Six victories. Zero losses. Against opponents ranked objectively higher."
Silence.
Then ca the best part.
Mira stepped forward, pulled a black cube from her satchel, and dropped it on the stone floor.
It projected a mory—the training hall.
, yelling at Felix as rune-golems chased him across a maze. Students hurling spells, dodging, laughing, learning.
The room shifted.
Now they weren’t seeing failure.
They were seeing fire.
And for a mont, even the Council forgot their disdain.
No expulsion.
No demotion.
But also... no protection.
They would watch .
And if I slipped?
They’d bury .
Fair enough.
Later That Night: Roderick’s Office
"Why didn’t you tell you invited Mira?" Roderick asked, pouring a glass of sothing ancient and probably illegal.
"Because you would’ve stopped ."
"True."
We drank.
The windows were dark. The academy silent.
Then he leaned in.
"There’s a rumor," he said, "about a whisper spreading in the Spiral Veil."
My spine stiffened.
"It’s about your class."
I said nothing.
"They say the patterns aren’t random anymore. That the Veil is *testing* sothing. Or soone."
Still I stayed silent.
Until Roderick placed a folded paper on the desk.
It was a sponsor request.
From a House I hadn’t seen in years.
The Drelmont Crest.
Red ink. Gold trim.
They wanted a private eting.
With .
And Cassandra.
I stared at the crest like it might sprout fangs and bite. The Drelmonts didn’t send polite invitations—they sent ultimatums disguised as etiquette.
The wording was deliberately vague: a formal request for dialogue, scheduled in two days, signed by none other than Elric Drelmont, my ever-smiling cousin and political cobra.
The sa man who once declared that a failed instructor "might as well sell his wand for bread." Now, suddenly, the family wanted to talk.
It reeked of strategy. And they wanted Cassandra present? That wasn’t curiosity—that was reconnaissance. Which ant she was no longer just a mystery... she was a threat.
The next morning, I found Cassandra seated in the corner of the classroom, as if nothing had changed.
Her eyes flicked up when I approached, calm as always, but sharper—like a blade half-drawn. "You’re unusually early, Professor," she said, voice soft, but laced with sothing unreadable. I handed her the letter.
She scanned it once, twice, then folded it neatly and tucked it into her sleeve. "So they’ve noticed." That was all she said before returning to her notes. No panic. No questions. Just that cold, eerie composure. As if she’d been waiting for this day all along.
And that terrified more than any beast tide ever could.
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