It began sooner than expected.
I’d hoped for at least another hour before the ash thickened, before the birds went silent, before the trees started bleeding.
But fate, as usual, kept its own clock.
We were halfway to the observation clearing when I felt it—that tug. Not on my body, but sothing deeper. Like the forest itself exhaled and I inhaled it. Old magic. Corrupted. Hungry.
Roderick turned back to us, his brow furrowed beneath that thick mane of hair. "Hold position," he barked. "Sothing’s wrong."
No one argued.
I dismounted, hand resting on the hilt of my sword. The Severance Form itched to be drawn, but I kept it sheathed. Not yet. If I pulled it too early, I’d only scare the students. Or worse—Roderick.
Still, my fingers drifted to my runes. I’d prepared five sequences, each with a distinct pattern woven into the wax-paper talismans: one for silence, one for shield, one for signal, and two for warding.
The fifth was untested. A gamble.
I had a feeling I’d need it.
"Professor?" Felix whispered beside . He had a spear in hand—too large for his fra, and shaking just slightly. "Do you see that?"
I did.
The trees were moving.
Not the branches. Not the wind.
The bark.
Pulsing. Breathing.
The forest was alive.
And it hated us.
"Brace!" I barked, and before anyone could ask why, the first creature leapt from the underbrush.
A wolf. Or sothing that once was one.
Its body was warped, mangled by the Blood Mist. Bones jutted out like blades. Its jaw had split three ways, and black ichor hissed wherever it touched the ground.
It landed squarely in front of a second-year cadet—Alric? Alran? It didn’t matter. He froze.
I didn’t.
The Severance blade left its scabbard with a hiss and drew a single arc.
One cut. One breath. No flourish.
The wolf dropped in two uneven pieces.
The boy scread.
"Move!" Roderick roared, already charging into the trees as more shapes erged—grotesque silhouettes crawling, bounding, slithering. "Circle up! Protect the students!"
I moved without thinking, grabbing Felix by the collar and dragging him toward higher ground. Mira was already casting curses, her dark magic swirling around her like ink in water. Garrick slamd his hamr into a mutant boar that scread like a woman. Wallace’s gauntlet sparked and burst as he activated the shock pattern—five enemies down in seconds, but his arm was already smoking.
Roderick fought like a storm. Axe cleaving through horrors. Blood—his and theirs—coated his arms. But I could see it. The story playing out exactly like I rembered.
He would be overwheld.
He would cover a student’s retreat.
He would die.
"Not this ti," I muttered.
I whispered the fifth sequence. A rune I’d carved not for power, but for anchor. A net of sigils spread across the ground beneath —like spiderwebs stitched with intent.
"Co on, you bastards," I snarled.
They ca.
Seven at once. Two lunging from above. One burrowed underground. The rest surrounded .
The runes flared.
The air sang.
And then—the forest broke.
Not physically. Not audibly. But... it changed.
As if sothing deeper woke up. Watching.
A low hum rolled through the roots, rattling every bone in my body.
From the shadows, sothing stepped forward.
Not a beast.
A man.
No, not quite.
He wore Academy robes—but they were wrong. Older. Frayed. Crimson where they should be navy. His face was concealed behind a mask of bone.
And his voice? It was the cold whisper of a grave dug too deep.
"Lucian Drelmont," he said. "The pattern in your soul does not belong."
My heart skipped.
"What did you say?" I asked, blade raised.
But he was already gone.
Smoke. Mist. Gone.
"Professor!" Julien called out, bloodied but still upright. "They’re retreating!"
And they were.
Just like in the ga.
Just like the tiline.
Only this ti, Roderick was still breathing.
For now.
I stared at the spot where the masked man had stood. The sigils still flickered underfoot, pulsing with a faint echo.
"The pattern in your soul..."
He knew.
Soone in this world knew I didn’t belong.
The Beast Tide was never just an accident.
It was a test.
And I had just failed—or passed—depending on who was watching.
They called it a victory.
Roderick barked orders, barking louder to hide his trembling hands. Students staggered through the gore-spattered glade, so laughing, others sobbing. Mira sat with her back to a tree, hands clutched around her knees, muttering a curse under her breath that I didn’t recognize. Wallace was unconscious but alive. Garrick had carried him to safety with one arm—the other hung limp and bruised.
Felix hadn’t left my side.
I wanted to feel pride.
Instead, I felt watched.
"The pattern in your soul does not belong."
He knew. Not just that I was different—but wrong. Like a mismatched piece forced into the puzzle of this world. And if he could see it, then others could too. How long before the world rejected like a virus?
"Professor."
I turned. Roderick stood before . Blood streaked his cheek, and a gash ran down his jaw, but he was whole. Still alive.
I almost smiled.
"You saved them," he said.
"So did you," I replied, quieter than I ant.
He nodded, but his eyes stayed sharp. "You used sothing I’ve never seen before. A rune net? That wasn’t in our curriculum."
Of course it wasn’t. I made it last week while arguing with a jar of ink and a very judgntal crow outside my window.
"Experintal theory," I said. "Unstable, but useful in a pinch."
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t press. Not here. Not now.
Instead, he said, "Headmaster Evercrest will want a full report. Lysaria too."
I sighed internally. Augustus Evercrest—the man with eyes like polished obsidian—and Lysaria, who led the Departnt of Arcane Theory like a cathedral of logic. Neither would be thrilled that a "minor instructor" had just pulled off a miracle.
I was not looking forward to that eting.
The return to the Academy grounds was subdued. The students were exhausted, their earlier excitent ground to ash by blood and screams. We passed the outer watchtowers just as the moon broke through the clouds.
In the torchlight, the academy looked different.
Taller. Older.
Like it was watching now too.
Later that night, I found myself in my quarters, the Severance blade resting on the desk beside . My hands were stained—ink, blood, ash. I should’ve been asleep.
Instead, I stared at the rune net I had recreated from mory, lines of pattern burned into fresh parchnt.
That man in the woods had spoken with certainty. Not curiosity.
Like he knew what I was.
Not who I was pretending to be.
But what I truly was.
And that terrified .
Because if there was one thing I’d learned from Sword of Radiance, it was this:
When soone in a bone mask tells you your soul is a lie—
It ans you’re on soone else’s board.
And the real ga hasn’t even started.
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