Jim the Groundskeeper [Original Fantasy]

[Metel_Pen]

Emile hit the ground hard, the impact rattling his bones. He rolled, dust pluming up around him, and came up into a crouch with his palms already coated in grit. Sweat stung his eyes, though the fight hadn't even begun. His heart pounded so hard it drowned out the roar of the crowd above.

Immediately, the golem's head jerked toward him. Not a slow turn, not a lazy mechanical sweep — a snap. Sudden. Precise. Its burning red eyes locked on him like twin searchlights cutting through the dust.

Emile's stomach twisted into knots.

Right. What did Jim say?

His mind scrambled, spitting out fragments of advice like frightened birds bursting from a hedge: Keep moving. Watch the ground. Watch the golem. Don't stop. Don't get caught.

He bolted left, boots slipping on the packed dirt, arms pumping for balance. The golem didn't move. Not its arms, not its legs — but its head tracked him perfectly, turning smooth as oil to follow.

Emile's breath caught. Okay. Weird. But maybe it was slow to start? Maybe it only struck once you closed the gap?

He cut right, zigzagging across the pit, dust spraying from his boots. Still nothing. No swing, no lunge. Just those eyes, glowing like embers in a furnace, following him with eerie calm.

He slowed, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

What the hell is going on?

Jim had said it would charge. Had said to "lead it on a merry dance," tire it out, then leg it for the exit. That had been the plan. But this? This thing was waiting.

He paced sideways, feinting left then back right. The golem's head followed, mist curling lazily from its eyes, but its body stayed rooted. Like a statue. Like bait.

Am I doing something wrong?

He jogged the other way, faster now. Still nothing. No roar, no rush of clay and stone. Just watching. Waiting.

"I'm just… running around like a right twat," Emile muttered under his breath, chest heaving. "Any second now, it's gonna lunge and knock me flat like a sodding cork."

The pit felt smaller with every step, the high stone walls pressing in, the heat from the crowd above pressing down. His lungs burned. The golem hadn't taken a single stride, but Emile could feel it on his skin. The weight of its stare. Heavy. Suffocating.

He slowed again, boots dragging, and locked eyes with it.

It hadn't moved. Not fully. But with its arms hanging loose, its massive shoulders hunched, and that vile mist curling from its face, it didn't look like an opponent anymore. It looked like a trap.

A wall of clay and hate, daring him to make the first mistake.

Then his gaze caught on something. A gap. Small, but real. Between its legs — narrow, low, maybe enough. Just maybe.

His stomach turned over.

Alright. New plan.

He crouched, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, trying to summon the courage. Jim's voice echoed in his head: If you go, lad, you don't stop. You don't flinch. You just go.

"Okay… okay," he whispered, teeth clenched. "Fast and low."

He launched forward, boots hammering the dirt in a dead sprint.

The roar of the crowd blurred into silence as his focus tunneled on that narrow space. He dropped low, sliding hard, arms tucked, body angled—

The golem moved.

It came alive with terrifying speed. Not a slow mechanical lurch, but a predator's strike. Its entire frame twisted, red mist pouring from its sockets, and its massive arm swung down in a brutal arc.

"—Oh crap!"

Emile twisted mid-slide, momentum dragging him sideways, dirt and grit tearing at his clothes. The golem's fist smashed into the earth behind him with a sound like thunder, cracking the ground where his spine would've been if he'd been a heartbeat slower.

He rolled, scrambled on hands and knees, and staggered back to his feet. His chest burned, lungs screaming for air, eyes wide with panic.

And out of the corner of his vision, he saw it.

The golem was moving.

Fast. Too fast.

It was already swinging again, faster this time — a low, sweeping strike that could've taken his legs off clean at the knees. Emile leapt backward, boots skidding, his arms flailing for balance. The golem's massive forearm cut through the space where he'd stood a heartbeat ago, and the whoosh of displaced air slapped his skin hard enough to sting.

Shit shit shit, it's faster now!

The golem's torso twisted, runes across its shoulders pulsing crimson, and it swung a third time. Even faster.

The blow missed by inches, but Emile felt the pressure of it. The ground quivered under the weight of its strike, a ripple running through the dirt like an earthquake. Every punch carried enough force to pulp a man where he stood. This wasn't just clay animated by spellwork. No. This thing was angry. Fueled by something darker.

He stumbled back, desperate to create space, lungs dragging ragged air. Jim's voice thundered in his memory: Lead it away. Pull it to the edge, then run for the gap.

"Alright, alright!" Emile wheezed, veering toward the pit's perimeter. He waved his arms wildly, shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Come on, you oversized garden ornament! Over here!"

The golem didn't take the bait.

It didn't lumber after him like Jim said it should. Instead, it simply turned — slow, deliberate — always keeping itself planted between Emile and the exit.

It knows.

The realisation froze his blood. It's not just following me. It's thinking. It's… waiting.

His stomach lurched. He wasn't being tested. He was being hunted.

He staggered, chest heaving, boots grinding dust as he tried to circle again—

Then he heard it.

A heavy thud behind him.

Another figure dropping into the pit.

---

He spun, blinking sweat and grit from his eyes.

Maizel.

She landed light as a feather, her robes flowing like water, her stride already purposeful. Her face was unreadable — no panic, no hesitation, only that cold precision she carried like armour.

Emile's heart kicked. What is she doing?!

She was closer to the exit, well behind the golem. If it was going to target anyone, it should've been her. Logic demanded it.

But it didn't.

The golem's head snapped away from her, those red eyes blazing brighter, mist spilling like blood from a wound. And then — it charged.

At Emile.

What?!

It moved with terrifying intent, like it had made a choice. Not random. Not blind. A decision.

With a roar of stone grinding on stone, it raised its colossal arm and brought it crashing down.

The blow hit the dirt with the weight of a collapsing tower.

BOOM.

The shockwave blasted outward, a storm of dirt and broken stone that slammed into Emile's chest like a cannon. He was hurled back, flat on his spine, the breath blasted from his lungs. Dust blinded him, clogged his throat. He gagged, gasped, clawed at his face, wiping furiously, blindly.

All he could hear were the footsteps.

Thunderous. Relentless. Getting closer.

Closer.

He blinked. Rubbed. Everything was blur and sting—

And then, through the haze, he saw it.

The golem. Towering above him. Its fist rising again, higher, ready to descend like a guillotine.

Emile scrambled backward on hands and heels — and hit cold stone. The pit wall. Hard. Unyielding.

Nowhere to run.

Nowhere to dodge.

His chest heaved. His arms shot up instinctively, pathetic defence against something that could crush him like glass.

And then—

BOOM.

A blinding flash. A sickening crunch. And sudden, absolute silence.

Dust whipped past him in a sudden blast of wind, hot and choking. The ground trembled again — not from a strike, not from a fist, but from something deeper. A collapse.

Emile blinked through the grit, chest heaving, until the haze thinned enough for him to see.

The golem was down.

Flat on its back.

Its head was gone — blown clean off, shattered chunks of clay still raining down in dull thuds across the arena floor. The torso twitched once, runes flickering like dying coals, then went still.

Smoke curled in the air above the ruin. Not grey. Not black. Purple. A haze that shimmered faintly before thinning into nothing.

Emile turned toward the source.

Maizel.

She stood calm and composed, one hand still outstretched, the last wisps of violet energy curling lazily from her fingers like steam off quenched metal. Her eyes found his through the settling dust. Cool. Unreadable. Razor sharp.

She gave the smallest nod. Barely a dip of her chin.

Then — without a word — she turned on her heel and sprinted straight through the exit, robes snapping behind her.

Emile just stared after her.

Stunned. Filthy. Heart pounding. Still alive.

What the hell just happened?

Slowly, his gaze drifted upward toward the observation platform.

Jim stood there, coat snapping in the wind, his face twisted into raw confusion. Brows knotted, jaw set — a man staring at a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Then Jim's eyes locked with Emile's. And the confusion vanished, replaced by urgency.

He started mouthing something. Hard, sharp movements of his lips.

Emile squinted, trying to make it out.

Jim repeated it, slower this time, stabbing a finger toward the open gate.

Go through the…

Emile blinked.

Then it clicked.

"Go through the fucking exit!"

He staggered to his feet, groaning with every motion, his body sore and battered but unbroken.

And then he ran.

 

[Simonbob]

..... Interesting.

This Maizel is dangerous, yes. But if she's a cultist, why show it off? Just to kill in the contest? But she didn't, and even saved Emile.


So, I don't think she's a cultist. She's something else.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim watched as Emile disappeared through the exit — battered, limping, filthy… but alive.

For a moment, his breath caught in his chest. Relief loosened the knot in his gut. Pride flared — sharp and unbidden. And underneath it all… something else.

She saved him.

Jim's eyes slid back to where the golem lay. A crumpled, headless heap of clay and stone, still steaming faintly, the last traces of corrupted heat leaking into the air.

Why?

His jaw clenched. That question, like so many these days, had no easy answer.

Why in the fuck did she save him?

It didn't add up. None of it did.

From the beginning, Maizel had been too clean. Too polished. Her movements precise, her words measured. Always in control. Always one step ahead — or at least looking like it. And now this? Dropping into the pit like a shadow, blasting the head off a corrupted golem without a flinch or a grunt?

And that smoke. That purple haze. That wasn't beginner spellwork. That was sharp. Refined. Lethal.

No panic. No warning. No wind-up. Just one perfect strike and done.

She wasn't a novice. Not even close.

Jim had seen battle magisters before — real ones. Hardened bastards who'd cut their teeth on front lines, their nerves tempered by fire and death. Even they didn't move like that.

She was something else.

But what?

Jim rubbed at his beard, eyes narrowing. The Umbar theory? Maybe. Maybe not. The way the golem ignored her, like it knew exactly who not to cross… that stank of command. Of leash and handler. But then — why save the boy?

If she was Umbar, why drag Emile out of the fire?
And if she wasn't… then what the hell was she doing here at all?

His teeth ground together. Every question led to another. Every thread frayed into more knots. And Jim was tired of questions.

He turned from the balcony at last, coat flapping hard in the rising wind.

First things first.

He needed to see the lad.

Jim found him in the winners' tent.

The place was thick with noise and sweat, forty-odd students crammed inside, most of them bandaged, bruised, or dazed. Some clutched wrapped ankles or cradled splinted arms, their faces pale with exhaustion. Others just sat staring, hollow-eyed, the shock not yet burned out of them.

But they were alive.

All of them.

Jim had checked. Properly. He'd walked the rows, leaned over the healers' shoulders, demanded answers. No deaths. No ruined bodies. A few broken bones, a handful of deep cuts, a dislocation here and there — but nothing final. Nothing a healer or time couldn't mend.

For once, the academy's bloodletting hadn't taken a life.

Jim let himself feel it. Pride. Not just for Emile, but for every one of the kids who'd walked out instead of being carried. Just this once, he allowed it.

Then he saw him.

Emile sat off to the side, alone, shoulders slouched, hands dangling loose between his knees. His hair was matted with sweat and dust, his knuckles raw. He looked small. But breathing.

Jim crossed the floor, boots heavy on the canvas beneath, and stopped in front of him.

"How ya farein', lad?" he asked, his voice low.

Emile looked up. For a heartbeat, his eyes were empty — the thousand-yard stare of someone still trapped in the echo of what just happened. Jim knew that look too well. He'd worn it himself, once.

Then, slowly, something flickered back behind the boy's gaze. He blinked, straightened a little, and forced a tired smile.

"I'm okay," he said softly. "Just… a bit of a long night."

"Aye," Jim muttered, folding his arms across his chest. "You've earned one."

He hesitated, then added in his usual rough edge, "Tell ya what. Time for another lesson."

Emile's brow furrowed, but the smile lingered. "Another one?"

"Rest," Jim said firmly. "Lesson is — you need it. You need to eat, and you need to sleep. I know your mind's racing, buzzin' with it all. But even just lying down, letting the weight off your bones… it helps. Believe me."

The boy nodded, slow but sure, that faint spark of trust still alive between them.

"Right," Jim said, turning slightly toward the boy. "Once you've eaten, you come find me. We'll talk."

He started to step away, then stopped.

"And Emile?"

"Yeah?"

"You did good."

He didn't wait for a reply. He didn't need one. He just walked out, coat catching the breeze as he pushed through the tent flap.

The sunlight hit him — sharp, hot, blinding. And almost immediately, so did someone else. Jim nearly collided with a wall of smug wrapped in black fabric.

Professor Elmsley.

The man's pristine robes didn't have a speck of dust on them. His hair was slicked back as though he hadn't so much as broken a sweat, and his face wore that same permanent sneer Jim had always wanted to slap clean off.

"Mind yourself," Elmsley said, sniffing, as though Jim had tracked manure onto his precious floor.

Jim let out a low, dry laugh. "Look who's talkin'."

The professor's eyes narrowed. "I assume you're checking in on your little stray?"

Jim didn't blink. "Don't worry — your pet made it through."

"So did yours," Elmsley replied smoothly, one brow arching. "Though… by the skin of his teeth. And, if rumours are to be believed… with help."

The smirk that followed was sharp enough to draw blood. Jim's fists twitched at his sides.

He chuckled once — hollow as a coffin — and stepped in, close enough for Elmsley to smell the whiskey still lingering on his coat. The professor tensed, shoulders stiffening.

Jim's voice dropped, gravel and steel in equal measure.

"If I find out you've got anything to do with what's going on here — the golem, the sabotage, the lad's name on the list — I won't waste time with questions."

He leaned in, his scarred forehead almost brushing Elmsley's.

"I'll gut you myself."

Before Elmsley could muster a retort, Jim snapped forward.

CRACK.

The headbutt landed square on the bridge of the nose. A sickening crunch followed by a strangled yelp. Elmsley reeled, clutching his face, blood seeping fast between his fingers.

Jim turned on his heel without another glance, coat swaying with the motion.

He had someone else to find.

The academy doors groaned open under his hand. Inside, silence.

Everyone was still up at the arena, buzzing over blood and glory, riding the high of survival. Down here, the school felt abandoned — an empty shell of stone and dust. The torches along the walls flickered low, their light weak, as if the place itself was tired.

Jim's boots echoed as he stepped in, but his ears weren't listening for voices. He was hunting something else.

Mud.

His eyes dropped to the flagstones. Worn smooth in places, scuffed in others. And then — there. Small boot prints. Still damp. Heading toward the library wing.

Got you.

He followed the trail with slow, steady steps, shoulders tense, eyes flicking over every shadow. The deeper he went, the quieter it grew. The kind of quiet that made a man feel like the walls were leaning in, listening.

The first library room he checked was dark. Shelves silent, the air stale.

The second was the same.

The third, though—

Light.

A faint golden glow spilling under the crack in the door.

Jim's jaw flexed. No point checking the handle. No one in this gods-forsaken place locked a bloody thing. Arrogance disguised as trust.

He pushed the door open with deliberate care, the hinges whispering a soft protest.

And there she was.

Maizel.

Sitting behind the librarian's desk like she owned it. Posture straight, hands folded neatly over a stack of tomes. Like she'd been reading for leisure instead of blowing the head off a corrupted golem less than an hour ago.

Jim stepped inside, slow and heavy. One step. Another.

"Me and you," he said, voice low but carrying, a weight behind every syllable.

"We need to have a proper chat."

 

[Yeetboi]

Ooohhh, an interrogation. I love those.
Also, good on Jim for breaking that Ponce Elmsley's nose, I think Elmsley should thank him. It's a marked improvement for his face.

 

[Simonbob]

I kinda want Elmsley to complain, only to be told "He didn't kill you, so he's not too upset, so relax."

 

[Metel_Pen]

I kinda want Elmsley to complain, only to be told "He didn't kill you, so he's not too upset, so relax."

Click to shrink...

Honestly, "He didn't kill you, so he can't have been that upset" might be the strongest defence Jim has. And the nose is definitely an improvement.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim didn't bother sitting.

He stepped into the room like a storm barely contained, his boots dragging heavy echoes across the stone floor. The air shifted with him, oppressive, charged — like the seconds before thunder cracked open the sky.

"Let's not piss about," he said, voice low and solid, the kind that carried steel under the gravel. "Who do you work for?"

Maizel looked up from the book resting in front of her. One blink. Measured. Too measured. Her tone, when it came, was featherlight. Innocent.

"Work for?" she repeated, tilting her head slightly. "I don't work for anyone. I'm just a student here."

Jim's stare sharpened.

"Cut the bullshit, lass."

For the briefest moment, her lips twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a tell, but enough.

"I don't think you're Umbar," Jim went on, stepping closer, his shadow stretching across the desk. "But I know they're here. And I think you know it too — no matter what that dipshit Plandorph says."

The words hit like hammer blows in the quiet. Maizel didn't move.

Jim's voice tightened, jaw working as he leaned in. "But you? You're not some bright-eyed schoolkid, fresh off the farm. That thing you pulled in the arena? Blasting a corrupted golem's head clean off without so much as a grunt?"

He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving hers.

"That's battle magister work. Easy. And not just raw strength — control. Timing. Precision. The kind you only see on a battlefield."

His gaze narrowed.

"So tell me this — if you're not one of them, and you're not one of us… why save him? Why save the lad?"

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the room.

Her faint, airy smile drained away. Her posture straightened, shoulders set, chin lifted a fraction. The air around her seemed to cool.

When she finally spoke, her voice cut sharp — a blade sliding free of a sheath.

"So… what gave me away?"

Jim stepped closer, his boots crunching softly on grit. "Perfection," he muttered. "You know, maybe pretendin' to struggle once in a while wouldn't hurt. Makes a person seem… believable."

Her brow arched, but she didn't answer.

"So." Jim folded his arms. "What are you then? Army? Intelligence? Something murkier?"

---

Maizel's eyes glinted faintly in the lamplight. She didn't blink. Her only movement was a faint sniff, subtle but dismissive.

"I know who you are, Jerim Amad," she said calmly, as if reciting a fact from a file. "I read your file."

Jim froze, just a fraction, but it was enough. His weight shifted, his breath caught halfway through a reply.

"So I won't dance around it," she continued, voice hard as cold iron. "I'm part of the Atakin."

Jim's eyes widened. Only slightly. But she caught it.

"So you've heard of us," she said, almost a challenge.

"Aye," Jim answered, his tone dropping to something darker. "I've dealt with your kind once or twice in the past."

She inclined her head. Calm. Flat. Unapologetic.

"So you—"

The creak of the library door cut her short.

Jim turned sharply, hand already twitching toward the knife at his belt.

Emile.

The lad stood there in the doorway, shoulders rising and falling as though he'd half-run the halls. His eyes darted from Jim to Maizel and back again, confusion plain.

"What're you doin' here, lad?" Jim asked, his surprise spilling out rougher than he intended.

"You said to come find you," Emile said, sheepish, scratching the back of his neck. "I didn't think you meant… like, in a few hours. I thought…"

Jim groaned, rubbing his temples with one calloused hand. "I meant after I finished shoutin' at someone, not fifteen bloody minutes after I walked off—ah, never mind."

He looked at Maizel, expecting a smirk or a jab.

But she didn't even blink.

"Let him stay," she said, nodding slightly toward Emile. "He's as much a part of this as you are."

Jim's eyes narrowed. He glanced at her, then at the boy, then back again.

Finally, he let out a long, slow breath.

"Alright then," he said. "Let's have it."

Jim's voice cut through the quiet like a blade, low but solid, the kind of sound that made the shelves themselves seem to lean in and listen. The library air was thick with the smell of parchment and candle smoke, every word dropping into silence heavy enough to crack stone.

"Why is an agent of the Atakin poking around a school full of teenagers?"

Maizel lifted her head from the tome she'd been resting her hand on, her movements deliberate, controlled. She drew in a slow breath, like someone steadying themselves before a duel, and spoke without raising her voice.
"Because the Umbar are here."

Jim's eyebrow arched, though his eyes never softened. "That's not exactly breaking news. They've got shadow-hands scattered across the realm. You can't spit in a tavern without hittin' one."

She inclined her head slightly, as if accepting the jab. "True. But our intelligence suggests they're not merely watching this place. They're searching. Quietly. Precisely."

Jim's stare sharpened, his whole frame coiling tighter. "What?"

A short, humourless chuckle escaped her. "To be honest… we don't know. Not exactly. There are pieces missing. Threads we can't follow."

He tilted his head, jaw set. "That why you've been holed up in the libraries? Scratching through dead men's notes?"

Maizel nodded once. "That's right. It could be knowledge, a relic, an artefact hidden in plain sight. Anything that connects to the Source."

She hesitated then, just a fraction, as though weighing whether to say the next words aloud. When she did, her voice dropped.
"But I think it might be the Chrysalis."

Jim frowned, the name unfamiliar. "That's a new one. What is it, some kind of magical cocoon?"

Her posture shifted, leaning forward ever so slightly. "It's… more than that. In Umbar lore, the Chrysalis is the spark that ignited their magical culture. An object said to link directly to the Source — not filtered, not bound. Pure. Raw."

Jim didn't speak, but his jaw clenched tight enough that his beard bristled.

"It's said it can awaken the Source in anyone," she pressed. "Even those born with nothing. Turn them into magisters overnight. And those who already possess magic? It twists them into something else. Stronger. Sharper. Weapons of terrifying power."

The words lingered in the still air like a curse.

Jim's reply was flat, grim. "And some clever bastard thought the best place to stash a magical weapon of mass destruction… was a bloody school?"

"I know," Maizel said with a shrug that didn't quite hide her tension. "The old magisters had a flair for the dramatic. They loved their symbols."

Jim gave her a long, hard look. "So if you're meant to be keepin' low, why the hell'd you put your name down for the Games?"

"I didn't," she said plainly. "And I'd wager whoever put Emile's name in… put mine in too."

Her head turned toward the boy. Emile shifted uneasily under the weight of it but didn't open his mouth.

"That tells me someone's been watching us," she went on. "Closely. Deliberately. They wanted us both out of the way."

Jim grunted, arms folding. "Aye, well… that plan fell to bits."

"It did," she agreed. "Because someone sabotaged the course."

Jim's eyebrow climbed, suspicion sharpening in his stare.

"Don't be coy," Maizel said, folding her arms. "The dirt on the Leap of Faith? Just enough of a trail for someone observant, but not obvious enough to raise alarm."

Jim said nothing, the silence itself an answer.

She allowed herself the faintest smile. "Then the rope climb. No electrosurge glyphs. No tricks. Just rope. Ordinary, boring rope. The kind that doesn't fry teenagers."

"I'm a big fan of non-lethal rope," Jim muttered.

"But the golem," she pressed, her voice dropping cold. "That wasn't your handiwork."

Jim's expression hardened, every line of his face sharpening.

"It wasn't broken," she said. "It was altered. Its eyes were red. Its movements weren't scripted — they were predatory. That wasn't training, Jim. That was hunting."

She looked him dead in the eye, her voice quiet but carrying steel.
"Someone wasn't just trying to hurt us. They were trying to kill us."

Jim gave a short, derisive snort and leaned back a step, though his eyes stayed locked.
"Don't have to explain the obvious, lass. Pretty sure we've all gathered by now — someone's got it in for us. Me included."

He scratched at the side of his nose, gaze narrowing into a knife's edge.

"And up until about an hour ago…" He gave her a sideways glance, voice like gravel. "I thought it was you."

Maizel didn't move, but the shift in her posture was there — just a fraction. A stiffening in the shoulders, a flicker of something sharp and unguarded behind her eyes.
"They came after you?" she asked quietly.

"Aye," Jim said, his voice flat as he tugged his sleeve back and casually inspected the burn still healing across his arm. The angry mark ran jagged from elbow to wrist, ugly against the weathered skin. "Some cloaked bastard with an ember blade. Didn't come for a chat."

Her brows furrowed. "You're certain it was them?"

Jim gave her a dry look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Didn't stop to ask for credentials, if that's what you mean."

For a moment, the tension eased — Maizel exhaled, not laughing, but releasing something that sat close to it. A brittle sound, the kind a person makes when things keep getting worse and all that's left is grim amusement.

"Maybe you got too close," she said. "To whatever they're guarding. Or maybe…" Her eyes traced him, sharp again, weighing his every scar like a map. "Maybe you're stirring up too much trouble."

Jim grunted, shoulders rolling in a shrug that carried the weight of years.
"Trouble's been here long before I stuck my nose in. I just don't have the luxury of ignorin' it anymore."

The silence stretched. Then Emile spoke up, hesitant, voice low but cutting through.
"So… are you not actually a teenager, then?"

The words hung there, absurd and blunt.

Jim turned slowly, giving the lad a sideways glance — the kind that said stop thinking with your bloody trousers, boy — but he didn't bother answering.

Maizel blinked once, clearly caught off guard. For the first time since he'd met her, she looked almost… amused. Just for a flicker, the mask slipped.

Jim cleared his throat hard, dragging the conversation back on track.
"So. What's next?"

Maizel straightened, composure sliding back into place. Her voice cooled again.
"Well. We keep doing the Games. Keep winning. Sooner or later they'll get impatient. Try to take us out directly."

Jim gave a short nod. "Aye. Sounds about right. And while me and the lad are playin' bait, what'll you be doin'?"

"I'll keep digging," she said. "Narrow down what they're after. And, if I can, where it's hidden."

"My money's still on the cocoon-thing," Jim muttered.

"The Chrysalis," Maizel corrected crisply.

"Right. That. Whatever it is, it sounds dangerous enough, so odds are it's that." He clapped Emile lightly on the back. "Come on. Me and hormones here need some rest. See you Wednesday night."

Without another word, Jim spun the boy around and marched them both out of the library.
The corridors stretched quiet as they walked, torchlight flickering against worn stone. Their boots echoed in unison.

Emile glanced up sheepishly. "Was it a stupid question?"

Jim didn't slow his pace. "Why the fuck did you even ask that, lad? She's got more poise than half the faculty, and eyes like she's seen a war through a keyhole." He sighed, the sound carrying more weariness than anger, and muttered under his breath: "Gods help me, I'm mentoring a lovesick puppy."

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Not the awkward kind, but the heavy sort — the kind carried by men with too much on their minds to waste on chatter.

When they reached the cabin, Aualine was waiting. The dragon rumbled softly at the sight of them, smoke curling from her nostrils. She nudged Jim's arm with her broad snout, then butted Emile hard enough to nearly knock him off his feet — her version of affection. Once satisfied they were both alive, she curled by the doorway and settled, her deep, steady breaths filling the night like the rhythm of a living forge.

Inside, Jim went straight to the cupboard. Two mismatched glasses. A half-finished bottle of whiskey. He poured heavy measures, slid one across the table without a word.

Emile took it, nodded, and sipped. Jim knocked his back like medicine, the liquor burning a trail down his throat.

The silence sat between them until Jim finally exhaled, long and low. "Well."

Emile nodded, eyes still wide, voice small. "Yeah."

"What's the next challenge?" he asked after a moment.

Jim's mouth tugged in the faintest smile — tired, but real. "We'll talk about that tomorrow. Tonight… enjoy the fact you're still breathin'. Have your drink. Don't overthink it. And if you need to talk — talk."

Emile looked at him then, eyes searching the worn face across the table, trying to read the man who had somehow become his shield.

"Is this another lesson?" Emile asked.

Jim shook his head and leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.
"Nah. Just advice."

Emile looked down into his glass. He didn't speak, but the long, slow breath he let out told Jim everything he needed to know. The lad was carrying it heavy already, and it wasn't even the second round yet.

Jim stood with a grunt, joints popping faintly as he crossed the room to the old trunk at the foot of his bed. The iron fittings groaned as he lifted the lid. Inside lay a scatter of relics from another life — belts, old kit, scraps of uniform too battered to wear, steel that smelled of old blood and oil. He reached down, pulled something from the depths, and returned to the table with deliberate purpose.

He laid the sheathed sword down in front of Emile. The leather was cracked, the hilt wrapped in worn cloth gone grey with age.

"Here," Jim said. "Considering what happened with the golem earlier… you might need this."

Emile blinked, startled, then reached out. The weight of it pulled his shoulders straighter the instant he touched it. He unsheathed it slowly — the steel catching the warm firelight, edges scarred and pitted from long years, but still sharp enough to whisper promise.

Jim watched him, eyes steady.
"She ain't pretty. She's seen more war than most kingdoms. But she won't fail you, not if you treat her right."

Emile swallowed, nodded, and tightened his grip. "Thank you."

Jim only shrugged, reaching for the bottle again, pouring himself another measure like it was just another night, just another fire, and not the first step of something that might break them both.

 

[Simonbob]

Ah.

The secret police have entered the chat.

And even weirder, they seem sorta capable. Not more trouble than they're worth.


Eh. I'm sure Maizel will be sidelined soon, after all if she could fix the situation, there'd be no more story!

 

[Yeetboi]

Okay, I didn't expect that, but it's a +1 to conspirators so it's all good.
No more major leads though.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Ah.

The secret police have entered the chat.

And even weirder, they seem sorta capable. Not more trouble than they're worth.


Eh. I'm sure Maizel will be sidelined soon, after all if she could fix the situation, there'd be no more story!

Click to shrink...

Ha, I can neither confirm nor deny whether the dangerously competent woman will be allowed to keep making Jim's life easier.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Okay, I didn't expect that, but it's a +1 to conspirators so it's all good.
No more major leads though.

Click to shrink...

One suspect crossed off the board, but at least the conspiracy itself has gained a few more legs. Jim's back to following muddy footprints and threatening people until another lead appears.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim had left Emile and Aualine to rest. The boy needed it — and so did the dragon, even if she'd never admit it. Aualine might grumble or rumble, but Jim knew the subtle signs of fatigue: the slower blinks, the longer breaths, the way her tail drooped when she thought no one was watching. She'd earned the rest, same as the lad.

Jim, on the other hand, wasn't built for resting. Not when he still had sabotage to do, enemies he couldn't yet name, and more bad ideas to chew on until they turned sour. Sleep, for him, had always been a luxury — one he'd learned to function without.

He'd given up hunting for the Umbar agent — for now, anyway. Whoever they were, they'd gone quiet. Too quiet. Which usually meant they were either laying a trap or waiting for someone else to do the dirty work. And Jim hated both kinds of silence.

So instead, he did what he was best at: watching. Waiting. Learning.

He'd spent the better part of three hours shadowing the work crews as they set up the next challenge. From a distance, it looked simple enough — a large hedge maze, thick and green, with a central tower looming above it. Standard fare for spectacle. The kind of thing parents in the stands might clap politely for, pretending it was noble instead of deadly.

But Jim had seen the plants they were weaving into the hedges.

Nightdeath flowers.

They looked harmless enough from afar. Roses, almost. Pretty, thorned, familiar. But one prick from those bastards and you weren't just in pain — you were down. Out cold. Straight into a coma so deep the gods themselves might've struggled to rattle you awake. There was no real cure, unless you caught it early. And even then, half the poor sods ended up drooling in a chair for the rest of their lives, staring at walls and forgetting their own names.

Jim knew. He'd seen it. Students who hadn't been lucky. Bright-eyed kids who just wanted to win a bloody game, condemned to live like shadows because someone thought poison flowers made for good theatre.

And if that wasn't bad enough…

He'd overheard the handlers talking. Redcaps. They were planning to loose a dozen of the little monsters inside the maze once it was sealed.

Now, the best way to describe a redcap, Jim figured, was this: take a garden gnome. Give it the aggression of a pub brawler on his fifth pint, the stamina of a bad hangover that won't quit, and a deep, heartfelt love for bare-knuckle fighting and cheap rum. Then kick it in the shins, drop it in a maze, and surround it with teenagers.

Yeah. That'd go well.

And of course, Jim thought bitterly, you could bet your arse they'd rile the bastards up first. Maybe wave a few wands, chant a summoning verse, toss in a keg of blackfire brew for good measure. Then clap when the carnage started.

What could possibly go wrong?

Jim scratched his chin, eyes sweeping the perimeter, already calculating. He wasn't sure yet how he was going to sabotage this one — but he would find a way. If the school wanted to send its students into a poison labyrinth full of drunken murder gnomes, then by gods, Jim was going to tilt the odds back in their favour. One cut vine, one rigged gate, one whispered trick at a time.

With a final grunt, he turned away, leaving the workers to finish setting up the death maze. He'd seen enough for now. There was a certain professor he needed to have words with.

Back at the cabin, Emile awoke with a start. He sat up quickly, heart thudding, glancing around the dim room. No Jim. No Aualine either — though he guessed she was curled up outside, keeping watch as always, her golden eye cracked open like a lantern.

But something else caught him. A smell.

Warm. Rich. Mouthwatering.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and followed his nose to the small wooden table. There, sitting in an old cast-iron pan, was a dishcloth-covered mystery. Emile hesitated, then lifted the cloth carefully.

Bacon. Crisp, still warm, glistening with just enough grease to make his stomach growl.

Beside the pan sat a thick slab of freshly cut bread, still shedding a trace of flour. And next to that — a folded note, scrawled in rough, hurried handwriting that looked like it had lost the fight with sobriety.

Eat it or Aualine gets it.

Emile let out a chuckle despite himself, shaking his head. "Grumpy bastard," he muttered, but the smile on his face betrayed him as he sat down.

He tore off a hunk of bread, stacked bacon onto it, and made himself a crude sandwich. The first bite was heaven — smoky, salty, and exactly what his aching body needed. He chewed slowly, savouring it, eyes drifting toward the cabin window where soft morning light filtered through the cracks.

For once, it was peaceful. No shouting. No drills. Just the crackle of the hearth and the smell of bacon in the air. The silence felt strange, almost unnerving — like his bones expected chaos but found none.

He finished the last bite, wiped his hands on a rag, and stood. The movement brought the stiffness back — settling into him like cold iron hammered into every joint. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like lead, and even his back had begun to knot up.

He'd trained with Jim for days now — gruelling, unrelenting, like the old man had a personal vendetta against weakness. Emile had known exhaustion before, the kind that came after long marches or sleepless nights. But this was different. This wasn't just soreness.

This was depletion.

He stretched his arms out slowly, joints cracking like kindling in a fire. His body felt like it had been carved from stone and then left out in the rain. Not merely bruised. Not merely tired. Drained — through and through.

He paced the cabin in slow, dragging circles, boots scuffing against the wooden floorboards. He tried to work the ache out of his bones, but it clung stubbornly — a weight in his limbs that refused to lift. This wasn't the usual soreness from drills. It felt… deeper. Hollowing. Like something inside him was leaking away, drop by drop.

Magic? Fear? The realisation that he might not walk out of the next trial alive? He couldn't pin it down.

All he knew was this — Jim had been right.

This place wasn't built to test students. It was built to chew them up, to grind them down until nothing was left but ash and memory. And now Emile understood why Jim fought so hard, why the old man sabotaged, schemed, bent every rule just to tilt the odds.

The ache reminded Emile of something he hadn't let himself remember in years.

The last week at the labour camp.

Back then, he'd been smaller. Frail. Just skin stretched over bones, living on scraps of bread and fear. Every step had hurt. Every breath felt borrowed. But he hadn't stopped. He couldn't.

Because in that place, weakness wasn't forgiven. If you faltered, if you slowed down even for a heartbeat — you vanished.

No one ever said where they went. The beds were just empty the next morning. No names spoken. No prayers offered. Just more work, more silence, more eyes watching the floor.

He remembered the final night before the liberation. How he'd lain there, staring at the rotten ceiling beams, convinced he wouldn't make it another sunrise. Not couldn't — wouldn't. He'd whispered apologies to ghosts, to the shadows of his parents, to anyone who might still be listening. Told himself, It's okay. This is what happens to people like you.

Looking back now — older, stronger, with dirt under his nails and a sword by his bed — it was madness that a child had ever had to think that way. But he had.

And then, the gates broke.

There hadn't been a trumpet. No banners, no golden heroes. Just men with swords. Hard-faced, bloodied, reeking of soot and rage. Men like Jim. They hadn't come for glory. They'd come with fury. And they'd torn the cages open.

Emile dragged himself back to the present, shaking his head as though to scatter the ghosts. But it was always the same — certain aches, certain silences, and the past clawed its way back up, uninvited.

With a steadying breath, he pulled on his boots and stepped outside. The air was sharp, the morning sky a dull slab of grey. Aualine lay curled nearby, her great golden eye cracked open as he approached.

"Alright, girl?" he muttered.

She snorted, a plume of steam rolling from her nostrils, and stretched her neck toward him — expectant.

He smiled faintly, running a hand along the smooth scales of her muzzle, scratching the spot beneath her jaw he knew she liked best. Her answering rumble was low, content, vibrating through the ground itself.

"Thanks," he whispered. "Don't suppose you know how to get rid of old ghosts, do you?"

Aualine blinked slowly, then sneezed into the dirt.

Emile chuckled. "Yeah. Fair enough."

Jim, meanwhile, was skulking around the botanical gardens, coat collar turned up, boots crunching soft over the gravel paths. He wasn't on duty. Not officially. He was hunting — for a stoner. A very particular one.

The place stank of damp earth and heady perfume. Creeping vines wrapped the old stone arches, mushrooms pulsed faintly in the shadows, and the air carried the sweet-sour tang of blooming nightshade. The kind of place that made your skin itch if you stood still too long.

Then he heard it.

"Oooh, that's it, my little darlings," a voice cooed from behind a particularly overgrown oak. "So round and firm and—oh my stars, is that new velvet on your caps?"

Jim's lip curled. He stepped around the tree and found her.

Professor Aidra.

She was kneeling in the dirt like a priestess in prayer, fingers stroking the bulbous heads of fat, purple mushrooms. Her dreadlocks swung gently as she leaned closer, eyes half-lidded, her face lit with the blissed-out grin of someone happily several miles above sea level.

Jim cleared his throat, sharp and deliberate.

"Aidra."

She turned her head slowly, blinking at him like he'd just sprouted from the bark itself.

"Ah… Jim," she said with a beatific smile, eyes glassy as moonlight on a pond. "What brings you to my nursery on such a dewy morning?"

Thank fuck, Jim thought. The way she'd been whispering sweet nothings to the fungi, he was half-convinced she was sampling her stock again. Though, judging by the sway in her stance as she stood, maybe she still was.

"I've got a new young drake coming in," Jim said, voice flat, arms folded across his chest. "Fiery temperament. Need something to cool its spirit."

"Fiery?" Aidra giggled, brushing soil from her robes, movements loose and dreamy. "Mmm. Dragon fire. Deliciously symbolic."

Jim blinked.

She's high, he thought grimly. Brilliant.

"Yeah, so…" Jim began, slow as molasses. "You got anything that'll do the job?"

Aidra blinked once, twice, then clapped her hands together. "Oh! Uh, yes! Yes, of course!" She sprang upright like a startled deer, scattering scrolls and dirt clods in her wake. "Follow me, follow me!" she sang, spinning on her heel and weaving through the greenery like she'd been born from it.

Jim rolled his eyes but followed, boots crunching over gravel.

She ducked beneath a curling arch of vines, stroking the glowing leaves as though they purred.
"You're growing beautifully," she whispered to a fern pulsing faintly with blue light.

"Oh, my darling," she crooned to a carnivorous vine as it twitched toward her hand, "look at your fronds!"

Jim trudged after her, muttering under his breath.
"Some days I swear I'm the only bloody sane one in this place…"

Eventually, they reached a wooden door buried behind a curtain of flowers heavy with pollen. Aidra slipped through without breaking stride.
"Come in, come in!" she called, sing-song.

Jim stepped inside — and immediately regretted it.

The air was thick, cloying. A heady mix of incense, citrus, pollen, and something sharper he couldn't name. Sweet. Spicy. Illegal? Whatever it was, it made his head swim after a single breath.

Her office looked less like a workspace and more like the inside of a forest that had taken liberties. Vines curled across beams, herbs dangled in bundles, and half-open blooms seemed to turn lazily toward him as if they were watching.

Aidra was already elbow-deep in a cupboard carved into the wall.
"No, not this… hmm, definitely not this… oh, unless— ooh, I'll save that for later… Aha!"

She spun, triumph lighting her hazy eyes, and presented him with a small wooden bucket of shimmering white powder. It sparkled faintly, like flour laced with stars.

"Here we are!" she declared, thrusting it into his hands like it was a gift. "This'll calm even the moodiest of drake broads. Like putting their fire right back in the egg. One whiff and they're docile as newborn kittens."

Jim raised an eyebrow at the glittering dust. "And how exactly do I use it?"

"Simple!" she chirped. "Toss it round the paddock, or give it a good whoosh into the air. Once they breathe it in—peace and serenity."

Jim frowned at the stuff. "And what happens if I breathe it in?"

Aidra tilted her head, dreamy as ever. "Ohhh… that's a question."

"Yes," Jim said flatly, "it is."

Her smile widened like she'd just been kissed by the cosmos. "You would become one with the stars. A note in the eternal music of life. A speck of sacred—"

"So I'd get off my nut?" Jim interrupted.

"Yes," she said brightly. "You'd get very off your nut."

Jim sighed, tucking the bucket under his arm. "Cheers, professor. Always a pleasure."

"Give the mushrooms my love!" she called as he left.

"Not a bloody chance," he muttered.

Jim awoke before dawn, same as always.

The sky outside was still a blanket of dark grey, the first hints of morning clinging low on the horizon. Cold air crept through the cracks of the cabin, sharp enough to sting his skin but familiar. Expected.

Last night had been… quiet. Comfortable, even.

He and Emile had eaten together — something hot and hearty, cobbled from whatever scraps were still lingering in Jim's larder. Root stew with too much pepper, a heel of bread, the kind of meal that stuck to your ribs more than it pleased your tongue. They didn't talk much. Didn't need to. The boy was tired. Jim was always tired. The crackle of the fire filled the gaps, the pop of resin in the logs marking the minutes better than any clock. Every so often, one of them would sip their drink — Emile nursing his, Jim swallowing his down like medicine — and that was enough.

It was the kind of peace Jim had learned not to trust. Peace had teeth. It always bit sooner or later.

He rose before dawn with a groan, joints clicking like worn clockwork. Dressing was a ritual: shirt, boots, wax coat. Fasten the cracked buttons with stiff fingers that never seemed to warm. By the door waited Aidra's gift — the wooden bucket of shimmering white powder. Even in the gloom it glinted faintly, like frost caught in a candle flame.

"Time to go calm some pissed-off gnomes," he muttered, hefting it.

The thought alone made his jaw tighten.

Redcaps. Mean little bastards at the best of times — fists like bricks, voices like gravel boiling in a pot, and tempers shorter than a mouse's shadow. Right now? They'd be worse. Drunk, angry, half-feral, and very aware of what was coming.

But that was why Jim was up before the sun. To do what no one else would. To stack the deck, tilt the odds, and make damn sure fewer names ended up etched onto plaques this year.

 

[Simonbob]

So.....

The teachers seem to fall into one of 3 categories.

1) Egocentric asshats, with a chance of being Umbar.

2) Fuckups, who are occasionally uesful. Low chance of being Umbar, but certainly not zero.

3) Umbar.




Man. Cleaning up this school is going to take some doing.

 

[Metel_Pen]

So.....

The teachers seem to fall into one of 3 categories.

1) Egocentric asshats, with a chance of being Umbar.

2) Fuckups, who are occasionally uesful. Low chance of being Umbar, but certainly not zero.

3) Umbar.




Man. Cleaning up this school is going to take some doing.

Click to shrink...

Jim just wanted somewhere quiet to keep himself busy in retirement. Unfortunately, he ended up working at Riordan.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim stood on the viewing platform again, coat buttoned high against the bite of the wind, eyes scanning the rows of students below.

Fewer of them this time.

The lines looked thinner. Faces tighter. That illusion of invulnerability the one they'd worn on the first day like a cocky uniform had cracked. Some still wore it, holding the pieces together with bravado, jokes, or over-polished confidence. But others? They'd dropped the mask entirely, left standing raw, scared, honest.

His eyes found Emile in the second row.

The boy stood straighter than he had yesterday, sword strapped across his back, shoulders squared, jaw set. No quips, no nervous fiddling, no glances to see if Jim was watching. Just focus. Quiet, solid focus.

That's it, lad, Jim thought. You're in it now.

Three students down stood Maizel. Sweet little Maizel, smiling like butter wouldn't melt, waving at the crowd as if this were a graduation parade. No cracks, no tells, no tension in her hands or shoulders. Just poise.

Fuck, she's good, Jim thought, not for the first time.
But he'd seen too many masks to believe one that clean. Behind those calm eyes, something was ticking. He just hadn't worked out what.

Beside her was Castus, face locked in its usual sneer. Even from Jim's higher vantage point, the boy somehow managed to look down on everyone else. Arms crossed. Weight evenly distributed. Too casual, too measured. The lad's whole body screamed: rehearsed.

And then there was Elmsley, hovering just offstage like a choir director waiting for someone to miss a note. His nose was still bound in crooked bandages, bruises blooming in ugly purples and sickly yellows across his face. Jim couldn't help the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Maybe he'll think twice before running his gob next time.
Doubt it, though.

He rolled his shoulders and let out a slow breath. The platform creaked beneath him, a tired old plank echoing the heaviness in his chest. Another round of games. Another round of lives balanced on some bureaucrat's whim.

And here came the bureaucrat himself.

Plandorph waddled onto the stage, robes flapping half a beat behind him, eyes shining like he'd just discovered his own reflection. He cleared his throat with the drama of a dying ox and spread his arms wide.

"Tonight… is Game Two!" he declared, as though announcing a coronation.

"The Maze of Amisa … a challenge that shall test your mental acuity, physical robustness, and spiritual fortitude!"

Jim didn't even twitch. He'd heard this kind of speech too many times to count, and they'd all blurred into one. Noble intent drowned in soggy self-congratulation. Empty words for a spectacle dressed as tradition.

He crossed his arms, tuning the voice out, and let his eyes wander. Watching. Measuring. Looking for anyone who didn't belong. Trouble didn't always wear a mask sometimes it just forgot to blink.

Plandorph, meanwhile, had launched into his usual interpretive nonsense. Arms flapping, circling through the air, clapping three times like he was trying to summon divine insight. To Jim, it looked less like spellcraft and more like an old man's morning stretch.

He reminds me of those sages from the Eastern Reaches, Jim mused. The ones who wrestle the air every dawn like they're fighting ghosts.

Finally, with one last overhead clap hands trembling with the effort, Plandorph managed a tiny orange spark between his fingers. It fizzled in the air with all the majesty of a damp sparkler and went out.

Plandorph beamed like he'd just torn the veil from heaven.
"I now commence… Game Two!"

Jim blinked.
Can he even do magic? Or is he just hoping no one calls the bluff?

Either way, the gates of the maze creaked open. Iron hinges groaned, stone wheels grinding against earth. The sound made Jim's gut twist … that old, cold knot that had kept him alive when better men had already rotted in the ground.

Then the signal rang out.

The students surged forward. Some sprinted, eager despite everything. Others hung back, cautious now, remembering what the first Game had cost. Fewer cocky grins this time. Fewer whoops and jeers.

Good, Jim thought. They've learned. Game One left a mark.

Emile set off at a steady jog, sword bouncing lightly against his back. No bravado. No wasted movement. His posture was different now…less like a boy chasing a thrill, more like someone stepping into a fight he couldn't walk away from.

Castus, of course, tore off like a dog off the leash. Legs pumping, arms chopping, head forward, running not for survival but for victory. Always trying to be first, always trying to be best.

Too much speed, not enough sense, Jim thought. He'll be sucking wind before the first redcap even swings.

His eyes slid back to Maizel.

She hadn't moved.

While the others vanished into the green jaws of the maze, she stood rooted in place. A statue with breath. Head turning slowly side to side, eyes narrowed in that way predators scan the grass.

Then she stopped. Tilted her head. Focus sharpened like a blade being drawn.

There, Jim thought. She's seen something.

No hesitation. No cry of warning. No glance at anyone else. She just moved fast, low, deliberate bolting for the maze in a blur of speed that had nothing to do with panic. Not the loudest. Not the flashiest. But precise.

Jim's gut tightened.
What the hell did she spot?

He scanned the crowd. Just students, roaring with laughter, jeering, cheering, blind to anything that wasn't part of the spectacle. That kind of joy only came from people who'd never had blood under their nails.

Nothing out of place. Nothing but noise.

Still, the itch wouldn't leave his ribs. His eyes dragged to the maze perimeter. The hedge walls. The treeline beyond. The narrow gaps between stone pillars. He locked his gaze there, unblinking, as if sight alone could drag the truth out.

Nothing. No flicker of steel, no shadow darting where it shouldn't.

But the knot in his gut pulled tighter.
What the fuck did you see, girl? And why do I feel like we just stepped over a line I didn't know was there?

Emile jogged on, steady pace, soft steps on the dirt path.

What was it Jim said again?
"All well and good being in front… just means you'll be the first one dead."

Winning didn't matter. Points didn't matter. He didn't give a toss about cheers or applause or whatever bloody cup they were fighting for. He just wanted to finish. To prove he wouldn't back down, even if someone had signed his name just to bury him.

He rounded a bend, braced for thorns, pits, illusions.

Instead, he stopped dead.

Right in the centre of the path stood a little man.

Waist-high. Patchwork clothes. A red velvet cap perched on his oversized head. Skin like dried bark. Mud-crusted boots, stained with something darker. Eyes too round, too steady — fixed not on Emile, but through him, like glass orbs set in wood.

Emile tensed, muscles coiled. Ready to bolt, ready to fight.

But the redcap didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't even seem to breathe.

Emile glanced back. Just hedges. Empty.

Turned forward again. Still there. Still frozen.

What is this?
A trap? An illusion?

He held himself still, waiting, watching.

The redcap remained a statue.

Carefully, carefully, Emile shifted his weight. Began to side-step, edging along the path, keeping his eyes locked on it, careful not to brush the hedges, careful not to make a sound.

But it was tight. Too tight. His boot nudged a loose stone.
He stumbled just a little and his shoulder clipped the little man.

The redcap teetered.

And then, like a felled doll, fell flat on its face with a soft thud.

Jim had given up trying to spot whatever it was Maizel had seen.
He'd scoured the maze's perimeter, scanned the crowd twice, even checked the tree lines.
Nothing. Just shadows and idiots.

If she saw something, she was either better trained… or more paranoid than me.

So, he refocused. Back to what mattered.
Back to Emile.

He spotted the lad further in, weaving cautiously through the maze.

Then movement.
A redcap. Small. Still. Eerie.

He watched Emile slow, shift to the side, almost clear.

And then clip it with his shoulder.

The redcap wobbled.

And toppled face-first into the dirt.

Jim blinked.
Well... maybe I overdid it with the dragon tranquiliser, he thought, folding his arms.
A bucket of white sparkle dust, and I've turned redcaps into garden ornaments.

He didn't grin. Not really. But one corner of his mouth did twitch.

Jim's eyes stayed locked on the maze. The noise of the crowd blurred into nothing, just a dull roar behind his ears. He wasn't here for spectacle. Not for the House points or the bloody pomp of Plandorph's speeches. He was here for one thing: making sure the lad made it out alive.

The hedges rippled faintly in the morning breeze, shadows moving like restless hands. Jim leaned on the railing, eyes narrowing. Every instinct in him screamed there was more waiting than just drunken gnomes. He adjusted his footing, coat whipping faintly around his legs. His gut didn't lie — and his gut was already coiled like a trap.

Emile moved on, alive and unbloodied, which was a small miracle in itself. Jim tracked him then glanced further down the corridor of green beyond him.

Something shifted.

A flicker.

A shape.

There… and gone.

Jim's brow furrowed. He adjusted his stance slightly, leaning forward on the viewing platform.

Another flicker to the left now.
It was fast. Too fast.

Maybe one of the other students? he thought.

No... that didn't move like a kid running scared. That moved like a shadow with purpose.

Gone again.

"Keep your head on a swivel, lad," Jim muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.
Something's in there with you.

Down in the maze, Emile stared down at the fallen redcap, still unmoving — just a small pile of limbs and velvet in the dirt. He watched it for a few heartbeats longer, waiting for a twitch. A shift. A trap to spring.

Nothing.

He let out a slow breath. Maybe the dust worked after all, he thought.

His confidence rose — not cocky, but steadier now. Grounded.

He picked up the pace. From a cautious walk-jog to a steady rhythm, feet thudding softly on the path beneath him. The maze seemed to breathe with him, every turn whispering leaves, every wall pressing closer. The hedges weren't just obstacles; they felt alive, listening. His shoulders brushed cool air that smelled faintly of iron and sap.

Still no sign of pursuit. Still no new traps.

Dead centre, he reminded himself. Always dead centre.

He hit a series of dead ends, the twisting corridors looping back like they were playing tricks. Sweat trickled down his back despite the chill. The silence dragged — heavy, waiting.

Then he heard it.

Giggling.

High-pitched. Breathless. Like children mocking someone behind their back.

Then came cackling deep, throaty, too much teeth in the sound.

It crawled along his skin like claws.

He slowed to a walk, breath steady, and crept around the next corner.

There they were.
Half a dozen redcaps, just standing there in a clearing laughing.

Not fighting. Not moving. Just laughing.

Their little crimson hats were off, some holding them in their gnarled hands, others waving them around like flags. One was pretending to wear his sideways. Another mimed a little bow.

They weren't laughing at anything in particular.
Just… at each other.

The sound was unnatural. Too sharp. Too repetitive. Like a broken music box full of giggling gremlins. It bounced off the hedge walls, filling the space until Emile felt it in his chest — a vibration of wrongness that made his teeth ache.

He crept forward a step — and one of them noticed.

Its head snapped around like a puppet on a string.

The laughter stopped.

The others turned with it, eyes locking onto him in perfect silence.

Emile froze. Muscles tensed. Hands curled into fists. He was ready to run. Ready to fight. Ready to scream.

No one moved.

Then… slowly… the one in front raised a finger and pointed straight at him.

It opened its mouth.

And burst into laughter.

The others followed a beat later.

Shrieking. Wheezing. Doubling over like he'd just told the best joke they'd ever heard.

One dropped its cap. Another fell onto its back, little legs kicking in the air.

Emile stood there, chest tight, as they laughed at him like a pack of drunk hyenas.

Emile heard footsteps behind him.

Fast. Urgent. Heavy.

He spun, hand flying to the hilt of the sword strapped to his back, ready for anything.

Maizel.

She came into view like a blur of motion and panic. Her robes clung to her with sweat, her hair stuck to her forehead, and a thin, fresh cut trailed down her cheek. Her breathing was sharp and uneven.

But it was her eyes that stopped him cold.

Not the usual calm, calculating steel.
Not the sharp edge of strategy.
This was different.

Fear.
Real, raw, and unhidden.

Emile's half-smile faltered.

"We need to run. Now," she said, voice hoarse.

She didn't wait for his answer. She turned, eyes darting back the way she came.

Emile followed her gaze.

At first nothing. Just the twisting shadows of the maze, black and still.

Then… movement.

A faint red glow began to bleed into the air. Barely visible at first — just a shimmer.

And then it began to form.

Like smoke turning into shape.

A figure emerged from the dark tall, silent, wrapped in flowing black. A hood shrouded their face, but Emile could feel its gaze like a claw dragging across his spine.

The figure raised one hand to their side fingers slowly curling inward.

And with it came the red mist.

It seeped from the figure's palm like coiled smoke, curling around their fingers, growing with every breath.

Emile recognized it instantly.

The same red mist… from the golem's eyes.

The figure began to move its hand, forming signs. Unnatural gestures sharp, fluid, ritualistic.

And in response.

The redcaps stopped laughing.

Every single one.
Frozen.

Their heads turned in perfect unison toward the figure. Their grins remained, stretched wide and wrong, but their eyes…

Their eyes began to bleed mist.

Thick, red, writhing tendrils leaked from the sockets, curling into the air like steam from boiling blood. The laughter that had rattled through the clearing died all at once, leaving a silence so sharp it seemed to press against Emile's ears. The air itself felt heavier, harder to breathe, as though the mist was stealing the oxygen from his lungs.

Emile's heart skipped a beat. His throat tightened. Every instinct screamed at him to bolt, but his legs refused to move.

Maizel grabbed his shoulder hard and yanked him down until their eyes met.

There was no calm left in her. No poise. No control. Only raw, undiluted urgency.

One word:

"Run."

 

[Simonbob]

Somebody set loose the kind of monster the the secret police have trouble with?


Awesome.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim had been following Emile's progress from the viewing platform, eyes narrowed and arms folded.
The lad had already taken three wrong turns.

"Dozy bugger," Jim muttered, watching him disappear into another dead end.

I told him two lefts, then the mossy stone, then keep right. Bloody simple.

He shook his head as Emile turned again, walked straight into a clearing and directly in front of half a dozen redcaps.

Jim tensed, his weight shifting forward.

But they weren't attacking. Not yet.

They were too busy laughing their arses off.

It was like watching gremlins on mushroom gin caps in hand, some rolling around in the dirt. A couple of the bastards clutched their stomachs, shrieking with glee, like Emile's very existence was the funniest thing they'd ever seen.

Jim even let out a breath, almost amused despite himself.

Well… the tranquiliser's clearly still doing its job.

For now.

Then he saw her.

Maizel.

She came into view fast — sprinting, hair plastered to her face, eyes wide. A cut marked her cheek. Sweat glistened on her skin. Her movements weren't calculated now, not the perfect little performances she was so good at. This was raw. Desperate.

Jim leaned forward, suddenly alert. His gut went cold.

He followed her gaze, she glanced over her shoulder as she grabbed Emile's arm. And though Jim couldn't make it out clearly, he saw what they were running from.

Nothing.

Just shadow.

But… there was a pressure to it.

Something unnatural, like a storm cloud building behind a closed door.

And then… just for a moment — Jim thought he saw it.

A shape.

Or maybe the absence of one.

Not light. Not dark. Just… wrong.

What the fuck is that? he thought, squinting, pulse rising.

And then the redcaps changed.

They froze, all at once.

The grins didn't fade, but their laughter died.

The clearing fell into a silence that was worse than the noise.

Slowly, red mist began to leak from their eyes, curling into the air like smoke from a dying fire.

"Shit," Jim breathed, stepping back from the rail, hands tightening on the iron until it creaked.

Before he could track what the hell was controlling them, they moved.

Fast.

The redcaps spun as one and tore after Emile and Maizel, their short limbs pumping like wolves on the hunt.

The sudden shift — from laughing idiots to coordinated predators — made Jim's stomach twist.

He watched the pair run — weaving through the hedges like foxes dodging hounds.

Emile ran.

Hard.

Every breath felt like glass. His lungs clawed at the air, each inhale sharper than the last. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision until the hedges became a green smear.

His boots slapped the dirt in frantic rhythm. His body screamed for him to stop, to collapse, to give in. But fear shoved him onward.

Maizel was ahead — still running like a machine, fast and smooth. Barely human. Her strides were even, arms pumping with perfect efficiency, like she'd trained for this exact nightmare.

He struggled to keep up. His legs were lead. His chest burned. His vision swam.

"Shit—shit—shit!" he gasped, the word rasping out between ragged breaths, half a curse, half a prayer.

She turned a corner, sharp and right disappearing down the hedge-lined path like a phantom.

Emile pushed harder, body screaming in protest, forcing one last burst of speed to close the gap. He could hear the redcaps behind them now the shrieks, the pounding feet, the guttural snarls of creatures who had stopped pretending to laugh.

A heartbeat later he rounded the same corner.

And she was gone.

Empty path.

No sound of footsteps ahead.

No flicker of her coat.

Nothing.

The silence hit him harder than the chase.

Just hedges, and dirt, and panic.
His heart hammered harder.
Where the fuck did she go?

Behind him the noise.
The redcaps.
Chittering. Yipping. Cackling again.
But now it wasn't drunken laughter. It was sharper. Focused. Hungry.

Emile bolted. Another turn. Right again.
She has to be down here. She has to be.
Nope.
Still no sign.

He kept moving, legs heavy, lungs ablaze. He threw a glance over his shoulder—
And then—
A hand.
Rough. Strong.
Yanked him into the hedge.

He cried out, instinct flaring, fists flying, ready to fight.
"Relax, lad."
The voice stopped him cold.
Gravelly. Grounded. Familiar.
Jim.

Emile sagged with relief, heart still slamming in his chest like a war drum.
"Shit," he breathed again, slumping into the hedge wall. "You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack."

Jim didn't let go. His head snapped toward the sound, the redcaps were closing in, shrieking, laughing and slapping bare feet against dirt as they charged through the winding maze paths, a ragged racket that scraped the air.

Without a word, Jim grabbed Emile by the collar and yanked him toward a side path, not too narrow, not too open. They ducked low into the turn, careful not to brush the hedgerows. The deep green brambles shimmered faintly in the moonlight, coated in the telltale bloom of night-death thorns that caught the light like a mouthful of tiny, hungry teeth. One prick and it's lights out.

Emile stumbled as they crouched into the alcove; his sleeve kissed a vine and Jim's hand was already there, snatching it back as if plucking a child from flame. "Careful," he growled under his breath. "One prick from these and you'll be pissing yourself while the redcaps paint their faces with your blood."

They dropped low, pressed tight between two thick hedge walls. The thorns made this a dead end, but also a shield. Damp leaves clung to their clothes; the air smelled of crushed green and something metallic far off. A perfect trap. Or a perfect hiding spot.

Emile was gasping, breaths sharp and panicked. Jim's grip on his collar tightened, then softened as he leaned in, voice like gravel. "Get control of ya body, lad. You breathe like that, they'll hear you from the next bloody hedgerow." Emile nodded, jaw working, trying to slow the tremor. "Deep. Through the nose. Quiet." Jim's eyes never left the path, pupils small and hard. "I know it's hard. Do it anyway."

The redcaps were close now. He could hear them snarling, panting, the wet slap of little feet. Their voices rose and fell in awful harmonies: a hiccuped cackle, a wet guffaw, teeth on breath. Then a shadow darted past the alley mouth. Then another. Then a third quick, like something small and hungry weaving between trunks.

One of them stopped. Right outside their hiding place.

Jim held still, shoulders a coiled brace, hand ghosting to the small knife tucked in his coat. He wouldn't use it unless he had to — but if it came to it, he'd gut the little bastard before letting it shout.

The redcap sniffed the air. Its head tilted, nostrils flaring in comic, unpleasant little twitches. For a breath it stood frozen, then it let out a wet, bubbling giggle that sounded like air pressed through mud. It took one careful step forward, eyes bright and hungry, and the world narrowed to that slow, terrible motion.

Its toe bumped against a thorn root.
The redcap hissed, jerking its foot back like it had touched fire. It sniffed once more, sharp and wet, then scuttled off, vanishing into the crooked paths after the others.

Jim didn't move. He waited. Five seconds. Then ten. He counted the beats of Emile's breathing, the way the hedge leaves trembled with the echo of passing feet. Only when the laughter dulled into the distance, swallowed by the maze's twisting walls did he finally unclench his jaw and turn to the boy.

"Better," he whispered, voice rough but steady. "But you can't run on panic, lad. You'll burn yourself hollow. Fear burns quick, but grit" he tapped his chest lightly, "grit burns slow. That's how you last."

He rose in one fluid motion, careful not to brush the venomous hedges. Every movement was controlled, deliberate like a man used to surviving by inches.
"Come on. We cut east through the centre fork. Avoid the left wall it's rigged with illusion markers. Keep your eyes sharp."

Jim glanced down the shadowed corridor, eyes narrowing at the faint shimmer clinging to one hedge like heat off stone. Illusions. Traps. Bloody faculty games.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," he muttered, already stepping forward.

But Emile's hand shot out and caught his sleeve.

"Wait. What about Maizel?"

Jim stopped mid-stride. His shoulders tightened, but he didn't turn.
"She's a big girl," he said flatly. "She can take care of herself."

Emile shook his head. His breathing was still ragged, but his eyes were steady now, stripped of the haze of panic.
"I don't think she can," he said, voice low. "Not this time."

Jim turned just enough to study him. His face was unreadable no scowl, no bark of dismissal. Just that steady, measuring stare.

"She saved me," Emile went on, forcing the words past his tight throat. "And we can't" he swallowed hard. "I can't leave her in here. Not with the Umbar after her."

The name landed like a weight. Jim's jaw flexed. A faint tic pulled at his temple.

"…That what you were running from?" he asked, voice quieter now.

Emile nodded. "Yeah. You didn't see them?"

Jim squinted into the maze. "I saw the redcaps. Saw something moving behind them but…" His eyes narrowed. How the fuck didn't I see them?

Emile stepped closer, his grip tightening on Jim's arm. Not pleading this time. Demanding.
"So are we going to help her… or am I?"

The silence stretched. Jim looked at the lad really looked. Fear still clung to him, yes, but beneath it was steel. A line of iron forming behind his eyes. Something earned in pain, sharpened by choice.

Jim exhaled through his nose. A quiet, measured breath that said more than a curse ever could.

He gave one slow nod.
"Aye," Jim said. "We will."

He turned toward the maze again, shoulders squaring, eyes scanning the forked paths ahead like a wolf picking up a scent. His hand flexed once, then settled.
"Let's go find your girl."

 

[Simonbob]

This should be interesting.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim led the way, low and quiet, his boots barely whispering against the earth. The maze twisted ahead like a coiled serpent, its hedgerows high and thorn-laced, each one glistening faintly with the deadly sheen of night-death blossoms. The air here was damp, heavy, and carried the faint copper tang of blood or maybe that was just his memory playing tricks. Either way, it set his nerves on edge.

He kept his eyes on the ground, scanning with the precision of a man who'd tracked soldiers through sandstorms and monsters through blood-soaked fields. Every scuff, every mark mattered.

Footprints.

Most led one direction deep into the maze's heart. A trampling of boots, careless, clustered. Children running into danger without knowing what waited.

But one set…

He paused.

Small. Narrow. Well spaced.

Long strides. Light tread. Moving against the flow — and fast.

"Running," Jim murmured to himself.

He crouched, brushed two fingers along the dirt beside a print. Still fresh. Still crisp. The soil hadn't had time to settle. Even the dew clung around the edges, disturbed only moments ago. Whoever it was, they weren't far.

He stood, jaw set, and followed it.

Emile, wordless, kept behind him. His breathing was steady now. No clumsy steps, no questions. He was learning. Slowly. Painfully. But learning. Jim allowed himself a flicker of pride before smothering it. Pride got people killed.

They moved like ghosts through the dark, ducking beneath overhanging branches, always hugging the centre of the path. The hedgerows on either side rustled now and then, and with every sound came the telltale cackle of a redcap patrol, drunk on bloodlust. The laughter slithered along the hedges like knives on slate.

Jim raised a hand.

Both of them froze.

He pointed a narrow alcove in the hedge, shielded from the moonlight. They slipped in just as a trio of redcaps loped past, giggling, dragging something wet and soft behind them. The smell followed rancid, iron-rich. Flesh.

Neither man moved.

Not a breath.

Not a blink.

When the sounds faded, Jim gave a small nod and stepped out, silent as a shadow. Emile followed, not perfectly, but close enough. His boots scraped once against the dirt. Jim winced, but the redcaps didn't notice. Lucky.

They kept moving like that, hiding when the patrols surged past, slipping back into the winding corridors once it was clear.

Jim could feel it now — they were getting close.

The path widened. The hedgerows became taller, more twisted. The thorns grew thicker here, heavier. Like the maze itself was guarding something. Even the air changed — stiller, colder, as though the night itself was holding its breath.

Then they reached it.

The centre of the maze.

A wide clearing under the open sky, moonlight painting the ground in silver. At the heart of it stood a stone plinth, cracked with age, overgrown with crawling ivy. Strange sigils, half-erased by time, curled faintly across its surface. The air here felt heavier, charged, like the calm before a storm.

Jim raised a fist not in warning, but readiness.

Jim stood stock still at the edge of the clearing, eyes sharp, body coiled tight like a predator sensing a shift in the wind. The centre of the maze felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. The thorns around the perimeter didn't just glisten they breathed, ever so slightly, like something alive was pulsing beneath the bark.

Emile crept up beside him, whispering:
"What is it?"

Jim raised a finger to his lips. Silence.

Then.

Movement. Fast. Sudden. Brutal.

Out of the shadows came a flurry of manic laughter and scuttling feet. Three redcaps, eyes glowing like coals, charged from the hedgerow like hornets from a nest.

Emile reached for the sword on his back, but he was too slow, one of the little bastards launched itself at him, slamming him to the ground with shocking force.

"Shit—!" he barely managed before he hit the dirt. The breath punched from his lungs.

The other two went for Jim. One lunged with a twisted blade, the other with claws outstretched.

Jim didn't hesitate.

He grabbed the nearest redcap mid-leap, lifted it with both hands, muscles straining with the sudden weight, and hurled it straight into the hedge.

A wet, fleshy snap echoed through the clearing as the thing hit the poison thorns. It gave a choked gasp, then went limp, a smear of red mist escaping its nostrils and hanging briefly in the moonlight like a bad omen.

The second was already on him, claws raking. Jim grunted, staggered back a step, then slammed the little bastard down and drove his knee into its ribs with a crunch that sounded far too loud in the quiet. The redcap squealed, a wet, animal noise, then went quiet as Jim's weight pinned it.

Emile, meanwhile, was locked in a desperate, fumbling war for survival. The redcap atop him was small, but dense — compact muscle and lunacy. Its grin was too wide, skin pulled tight over teeth that dripped that same crimson mist. Fingers closed around Emile's throat like iron. Each squeeze stole air; each slam of his head against the packed earth blurred the world with stars.

He clawed at its wrists, pulling uselessly, palms scrabbling in the dirt. Kicks that should have pitched the creature off caught nothing but air and tiny, furious limbs. The pressure built until his ears thundered. Time thinned to the beat of his heart: boom, boom, boom. Vision pulsed at the edges with black.

Then a shape loomed above him… solid, familiar. Jim.

Something sharp flashed in the moonlight and came down like a hammer.

CRACK.

The redcap went rigid, then slack. Air rushed in — a violent, overwhelming flood — and Emile sucked it like a drowning man finding shore. He coughed, blood and dust in his mouth, lungs grabbing at life.

Jim knelt, breathing hard, the knife slick in his fingers. He wrenched it free with a sound that made Emile flinch. "You alright?" Jim asked, voice low and flat like gravel.

Emile nodded, shoulders heaving, eyes wide and raw. He watched Jim wipe the blade on his trouser thigh in two fast, efficient motions, then slide it home with a small metallic click that somehow felt like the end of something and the start of another worry.

Then Jim froze, a stillness that wasn't rest. Movement shifted in the shadows, heavier now, deliberate. Not the quick, eager scuttle of the redcaps. Footsteps… a set, running, uneven, bearing down.

A figure burst into the clearing, cutting through the hedge's silhouette into the moonlight.

Maizel stumbled forward, chest heaving, sweat making her hair cling to her skull. A fresh gash split her brow and bled dark onto pale skin, but she barely noticed. Her robes were torn at the sleeve; her eyes were sharp, raw with something that might have been fear, might have been fury.

"Jim," she said, the single word slammed into the cold air like a thrown stone, heavy with meaning.

Jim didn't bother with pleasantries. "Aye. Shit got real, so I figured I'd stop playin' cloak and dagger," he said flatly, tone like the road outside town hard and indifferent.

He studied her, every twitch and cut, measuring what was said and what was kept. "How many after you?" he asked, voice low.

Maizel took a breath like she'd been running a long way. "One," she managed.

Jim's face tightened. A question lived in the set of his jaw. "Just one?" he asked, suspicion sharpening the edges of the word.

"Yes." Her voice was thin but steady.

He cocked his head, not convinced. The night hung heavy. The thorns around them seemed to shift closer, listening.

"And you couldn't blast them like you did the golem?"

She shook her head, frustrated, voice thin but urgent.
"I tried. I tried. I can feel the Source — it's right there, like it's humming behind my eyes — but I can't pull from it. It's like…" She looked off, searching for the words, hands twitching faintly as if trying to grab something in the air. "...like someone's put a sheet of glass between me and it. I can see it. Feel it. But I can't reach through."

Jim's jaw worked, then he turned toward Emile.
"Try it, lad."

Emile blinked, caught off guard. "What spell?"

"Any."

He hesitated, licking his lips. Then he lifted his hands and tried to mimic the gestures he'd seen the other students use a little flourish, a whispered word. He even shut his eyes, waiting for warmth, a spark, anything. Nothing. Just empty air.

He tried again. A tighter movement, louder this time. Still nothing. The silence mocked him.

Jim gave one slow nod, not smug, just grim. "Thought so."

Maizel's gaze narrowed at him, her lips tightening. Behind her fatigue, a flicker of defiance sparked.
"You still don't trust me, do you?"

Jim met her eyes square. His voice wasn't cruel it was honest, blunt as a hammer.
"Aye."

They stood there, eyes locked, neither blinking. Maizel's chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, sweat tracing lines through the grime on her skin, blood crusting at her temple. She looked like she might collapse — but her stare didn't waver.

Emile could feel it radiating between them. Not just mistrust — a tension that pressed against the clearing like heat from a forge. He cleared his throat and edged a step closer, almost inserting himself between them if only to stop the invisible sparks.

"Sooo…" he started, voice cracking, then steadied. "Are we trying to escape, or are we going after this Umbar prick?" He tried to sound braver than he felt, shoulders squared, chin lifted just enough to look deliberate.

Both of them turned to him. Deadpan. Perfectly in sync.

"We get out," they said together.

Emile blinked. "Right. Yeah. Cool. Just checking."

For the briefest second Jim's mouth twitched into something like a smirk. Maizel's face stayed carved from stone.

"Right," Jim muttered, turning on his heel. "Let's get the fuck outta here before a fascist psycho and a gang of murderous manic midgets get their hands on us."

He'd barely taken two steps before Maizel's voice cut in, sharp as a thrown knife.
"That's not the exit."

Jim froze mid-stride. His head turned slowly, his whole body tightening as his brow furrowed.
"Come again?" His tone was flat, stone on stone.

Maizel stepped forward, serious despite the blood drying on her cheek.
"I know it's hard, but trust me — what you think is the exit isn't. They've laid a reality warp over the maze. What people see from the stands isn't what we're actually moving through inside."

Jim's eyes narrowed. A muscle worked in his jaw. "They've never done that before."

Maizel gave a short nod. "Plandorph decided the maze was too predictable. Said it needed more… spectacle."

Jim exhaled hard through his nose, the sound halfway to a growl.
"Fucking Plandorph."

Emile blinked between them. "So… all the memorising we did? The markers? The safe paths?"

Maizel shook her head once. "Useless."

Jim rolled his neck, joints popping like musket fire.
"Fuck it," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "We'll work our way to the edge, handrail the walls, and pray to whatever's listening that we stumble on the exit. Unless either of you two have a better idea?"

His eyes flicked between them, sharp, measuring.

Maizel only shook her head, her face unreadable — the kind of calm that offered no comfort.

Then Emile raised a hesitant finger. "Erm… yeah. How did you get in here, Jim?"

Jim frowned. "Through one of the drainage ditches. Why?"

Emile blinked, looking almost sheepish but holding his ground. "So… could we not just find that same one again? Or another one? Crawl out that way?"

A heavy beat of silence followed. Even the hedges seemed to lean in, listening.

Jim stopped walking mid-step. Slowly, deliberately, he pivoted on his heel and stalked over to Emile. Each boot fall ground against the gravel path with the steady weight of a man about to unload.

He came toe to toe with the lad and jabbed a calloused finger at his chest. The poke landed like a hammer tap on armour.
"Yes," Jim said, voice rising with sudden, almost manic enthusiasm. "Yes, we bloody well could. That" he gestured wildly in the air, like Emile had just handed him a golden ticket out of hell "is the first sensible thing I've heard since we got trapped in this gods-forsaken hedge maze full of drugged-up gnomes and fascist assassins."

He threw his head back and barked out a laugh that echoed off the hedgerows, half amusement, half self-directed irritation.
"Why didn't I think of that?" He gave Emile a rough pat on the shoulder, hard enough to nearly topple the lad. "Remind me to listen to you more often. You might just have saved our arses."

Maizel gave a faint smirk, folding her arms. "It's usually the quiet ones that come up with the escape plans."

Jim grinned, already turning back down the path. "Right. Change of plan. We're goin' ditch diving."

They kept low as they worked their way toward the perimeter wall. The hedges loomed on either side, high and oppressive, their thorned blossoms glinting faintly in the weak moonlight. Jim let one hand trail along the edge as they went, fingertips brushing the barbs just enough to remind himself this was solid. Real. Or at least as real as anything could be in this warped, trickster garden.

The deeper they pushed, the more the air pressed in. A subtle sickness wound through Jim's gut. Not the roll of seasickness, but a low, crawling unease that sat in the belly like spoiled meat. The colours seemed too sharp, the shadows too deep. Sound echoed where it shouldn't — their footfalls doubling back on themselves. Reality bending, just slightly out of true.

"Feel that?" Jim muttered.

"Yeah," Maizel replied, her voice low, guarded. "It's worse the further in you go. Like the maze is… breathing around you."

They pressed on in silence. Fifty yards. Maybe sixty. Jim counted his steps. Drainage ditches usually cropped up every hundred. If the builders hadn't warped that too, they'd hit one soon enough.

That's when something colder crawled up his spine. Not nausea. Not the bend of the maze. This was sharper. Old. Instinct gnawing at the back of his neck. The prickle of being watched.

He didn't break stride.
Instead, he bent mid-step, scooped up a stone smooth, heavy enough to hurt and without a pause, hurled it into the darkness behind them.

A sharp whistle. A crack. Then a grunt, low and pained, followed by a thud.

Maizel and Emile spun on their heels.
"The fuck was that?" Emile whispered.

"Trouble," Jim said simply. His knife was already in his hand.

He moved like a man who'd done this too many times before, charging the downed figure with zero hesitation. If it was an Umbar, they'd be bleeding out before they could even stand.

But as he closed the gap, moonlight spilled across familiar features, the perfectly sculpted nose, the pouty mouth that always looked one word away from a complaint.

Jim slowed, lips curling into a scowl.
"Castus."

The boy groaned, dazed, as Jim hauled him upright by his collar. His head lolled like a rag doll, eyes swimming from the stone's impact.

Jim gave him a shake. "Of all the bastards to sneak around in a magic maze full of poisoned hedges and bloodthirsty gnomes, why's it gotta be you?"

Castus blinked, winced, and sputtered, "You… you hit me with a rock, you savage!"

Jim said nothing. His silence carried more judgment than any curse could. He briefly considered whether he regretted not throwing harder.

He let the boy go, and Castus staggered, trying to get his feet under him. His bleary gaze darted between Jim, Maizel, and Emile.

"What are you doing in here?" he demanded, voice pitched with suspicion, eyes boring into Jim.

Maizel stepped in smoothly, her innocent smile flicking on like a mask. It was practiced, polished, the kind of expression that always made Jim's teeth grind.
"He's here because something went wrong," she said sweetly. "I was injured. He's just helping me get to the nurse."

Castus's eyes narrowed. She didn't flinch.

"And him?" He jerked his chin toward Emile.

"He found me," she said evenly. "He's the one who alerted Jim. Once I'm seen to, he'll return to the game."

The boy studied them, suspicion creasing his too-perfect features. Jim could see the gears grinding behind his eyes slow, entitled gears and knew another question was coming.

He was just about to snap at the lad himself when the sound hit him. A noise he hadn't heard in a decade.

His blood went cold.
"Everyone down!"

They all dropped instinctively just as a red wave, sharp and sudden like a reaper's scythe, screamed through the air above their heads. It wasn't only sound; it came with heat, a vicious sizzle like fat spitting in a pan. The very air boiled where it passed, moisture hissing into steam. The blade of magic carved a merciless arc through the hedges overhead, splitting thorn-thick vines in half. The stalks shrivelled and blackened before they even hit the ground, collapsing into ash that drifted like burnt paper.

Jim was on his feet in an instant, knees bending, lungs pulling tight, instincts roaring awake. That sound the crackle, the burn it dragged old ghosts up from the trenches of memory. He'd heard it before. He'd seen what came after. Rows of men cut down in silence, their bodies falling apart before their minds understood. The air stank now of ozone and cooked sap. His muscles bunched, body reacting before thought could catch up.

To his left, Castus was curled on his side, one hand pressed against his head, mewling. Emile didn't think he scrambled forward, ducking beneath charred tendrils that still smoked, grabbed Castus under the arms, and hauled him back into the thicker hedge-shadow.

Jim dropped to a crouch beside them. His eyes cut to the wound. Half of Castus's ear was gone, sliced clean away as though by a surgeon's scalpel. No tearing. No blood. Just a cauterised edge, puckered and black. The boy whimpered, glassy-eyed, not yet processing.
"He's lucky," Jim muttered. "An inch over and that'd be half his skull."

Then the air shifted again. Out of the dark stepped a figure. The same one Jim had glimpsed before but gone now was the subtlety, the illusion, the shadow play. No more half-measures. Whoever they were, they were throwing battlefield magic now, heavy and loud.

We're too close, Jim thought grimly. Or something's changed. They can't afford prying eyes anymore.

The Umbar raised a hand, fingers cutting through the air in precise, vicious sigils. Another blade of red energy seared into existence, sizzling as it ripped forward like lightning wrapped in steel.

Jim braced… too slow.
Then clang.

The air hissed, the red vanished. Emile stood in its path, sword raised. The old steel drank in the strike, the edge glowing faintly red. His chest heaved, eyes wild, but he didn't falter.

Jim stared at him, pride tightening behind his grit. "Good lad," he said, flat but firm.

No time to linger. He hooked Castus up by the collar and dragged him to his feet.
"What now?" Maizel demanded, scanning the dark. "We can't beat them. Not with the dampening field alive"

"We're not beating 'em," Jim snapped. "We're running."

He took off, Castus stumbling behind him, knife still in his other hand. Sparks flared as another blade cracked into the ground where they'd been. The gravel hissed, glowing embers spitting into the night.

Maizel sprinted beside him, voice raw. "It'd help if I knew what I'm looking for!"

"Divot in the ground!" Jim barked. "Shallow, wrong-coloured foliage! Won't match the rest watch for it!" His lungs burned, every breath grinding.

Then he spotted it — a break, foliage too bright, too neat. His eyes lit up.
"Got ya," he growled.

He spun, dragging Castus, and dropped to his knees. With one sharp sweep, he tore the false greenery back. Beneath it yawned a tunnel mouth, wide enough for two to crawl through.

"Down. Now. Take him with you." He jerked a thumb at Castus.

Emile nodded and dragged the boy into the dark.

Maizel lingered, eyes narrowing as Jim drew his knife.
"And what exactly are you doing?"

"Buying time," he said. His voice was low, final.

She arched a brow. "Not here, you're not. You're far more useful as a human shield in a crawlspace."

Jim shot her a glare.

"Worst case," she added, shrugging. Then she grabbed his arm and yanked him down after her. "Move. We don't have time."

Jim grumbled but followed, crawling into the cramped tunnel. Roots clawed at his shoulders, snapping against his coat, and loose dirt crumbled under his palms with every push forward. The air was damp and close, thick with the smell of mould and old water. Each breath came back at him in echoes, warm and stale.

Every few feet he twisted back to look over his shoulder. Once. Again. Then again, the soldier's paranoia wound tight as wire.

Then the moonlight vanished.

The entrance behind them was gone, swallowed by darkness, replaced by a faint glow. Red. Slow at first, then creeping, staining the tunnel walls like blood soaking through linen.

"Fuck," Jim muttered, teeth clenched. "Move faster!" he barked, his voice bouncing harshly down the crawlspace.

He knew it was about 150 yards to the exit, but the glow thickened with every heartbeat.

And then he saw it.

The Umbar.

Standing at the tunnel's mouth, backlit by pulsing crimson, the figure looked almost sculpted from firelight. Jim caught a glimpse of the face, eyes burning with focus, twisted in rage, yet unmistakably alive with joy.

The agent raised a hand. Fingers curled, deliberate. The spell leapt.

Jim flinched.

"Down!" Maizel's voice cracked like a whip.

He dropped flat.

The air above him warped, a violent ripple tearing past as the energy blade screamed down the tunnel. A heartbeat later.

BOOM.

The world shook. The tunnel behind them folded in on itself with a roar, stone, soil, and root collapsing in a choking avalanche. The red glow winked out, buried under dust and rubble.

Silence.

Jim lay there, ears ringing, grit filling his mouth. He rolled to his side, coughing through the haze, and looked ahead.

Maizel stood just forward, one hand still raised, smoke curling from her fingers like violet embers in the dark.

"You did that?" Jim rasped.

She nodded once, her eyes still locked on the sealed entrance. A tired grin tugged at her lips.
"Looks like we're out of the dampening field."

 

[Simonbob]

Maizel gave a short nod. "Plandorph decided the maze was too predictable. Said it needed more… spectacle."

Jim exhaled hard through his nose, the sound halfway to a growl.
"Fucking Plandorph."

Click to shrink...

Well.

Time to kill Plandorph.


Oh, and check if he's an Umbar, but kill him anyway.

 

[Yeetboi]

Such staggering levels of incompetence must be studied, there has to be something in the water making all the faculty and kids stupid.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Such staggering levels of incompetence must be studied, there has to be something in the water making all the faculty and kids stupid.

Click to shrink...

Honestly, the reason they're all so stupid is that I watched Harry Potter while absolutely hammered, became irrationally angry at how useless the adults were, and started writing this while still wasted. Somewhere around Chapter Nine I accidentally became invested, and an actual plot began to form.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim sat in his chair like a man carved out of stone, the weight of the last few hours pressing deep into his bones. His body ached in that familiar, quiet way — not from any single injury, but from a dozen little scrapes, strains, and the exhaustion that came from keeping people alive on nothing more than grit and spite. His knuckles were split in two places, his shoulder ached where something had caught him in the maze, and there was still grit in his hair from the collapse of the tunnel. He took a slow sip from his glass of cheap whiskey, letting it burn its way down like a cleansing fire, as though it might scour the night from his throat.
It had been five hours since they'd clawed their way out of that gods-damned maze.
Emile lay sprawled on the smaller cot, dead to the world, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He hadn't even stirred when Jim had kicked the door open earlier — just collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, boots still on, sword discarded half a foot away. His hair was matted with sweat, dirt clung to his skin, and the kind of exhaustion painted his face that no sleep would cure in one night.
Maizel was curled up on Jim's own bed, limbs tucked tight, one arm cradling her ribs as though she feared they'd splinter if she let go. She hadn't said much since the tunnel. Hadn't needed to. Her breathing was deep now, but not quite peaceful — the kind of sleep that held tension just beneath the surface, like a coiled spring that might snap the moment the world shifted wrong. Jim didn't blame her.
They'd been lying there for three hours. Three whole hours of quiet. No screaming redcaps. No shadows shifting wrong. No blades of sizzling death cutting through the night. Just the creak of old wood, the tick of the wall clock, and the occasional soft grunt as his joints complained about still being alive. For a man like Jim, silence was rare. He didn't trust it, not really, but tonight he let it settle over him like a blanket anyway.
Plandorph and Elmsley hadn't even noticed they'd missed the actual maze exit. Too busy slapping backs and celebrating the fact that Castus — golden boy himself — had crossed the finish line. Never mind the state he was in. Shaking like a leaf in a storm, eyes wide and distant, still flinching at shadows that weren't there.
The boy had wanted to tell Elmsley. Of course he had. Castus was practically vibrating with the need to confess, to dump the whole mess in someone else's lap. But Jim had stepped in quick. Planted a heavy hand on his shoulder, leaned in close, and said with a smile:
"If you breathe a word, I'll tell the whole damn school you were saved by two first-years — and that you pissed yourself in terror. Which you did, by the way."
That had shut him up real fast.
Young men are so easy to manipulate, Jim thought, swirling the amber in his glass with a lazy flick. Bravado and pride — always the pressure points. He'd known too many just like Castus. Brave enough to throw a punch, not brave enough to admit fear. Useful in a fight. Dangerous in the aftermath.
He let out a long breath through his nose and leaned his head back. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to feel the calm.
Through the window, he saw Aualine pacing just beyond the cabin. Her sleek form moved in restless loops, claws clicking softly on stone as she prowled back and forth in a steady rhythm. Even from here, Jim could read the frustration in her movements — the low tail, the rigid shoulders, the occasional snap of her head toward shadows only she could see. She was restless. Agitated.
She hadn't been able to help during the maze. Hadn't even seen the danger, only smelled the aftermath when Jim returned bloodied and taut. For a creature like her — proud, protective, and perceptive — that was a wound deeper than any blade could inflict.
Jim sighed and stood with a quiet grunt, careful not to jostle the room's fragile peace. Emile remained dead asleep, a light snore escaping his slightly open mouth. Maizel, on the other hand, stirred.
The floorboard creaked under Jim's foot as he made for the door, and he turned to find her already standing, eyes alert.
"What is it? What do you see?" she asked quickly, her voice low but taut with concern.
Jim didn't answer right away. He studied her, watching how the tension pulled at her shoulders, how her breath caught between words. Maizel was a master at slipping into roles — clever masks, feigned warmth, fake smiles like veils over blades. But fear? Fear burned clean through all that.
She looked small in that moment. Not weak, just real.
He softened, just slightly.
"Relax, lass," he said, voice steady as a river stone. "Just tending to the woman of my life."
He nodded toward the window, where Aualine continued her tireless pacing.
Maizel followed his gaze, her brow easing just a little.
"Can I join you?" she asked, voice quieter now.
Jim gave a small shrug and gestured toward the door.
"Be my guest. But just 'cause I allow it…" — he raised a brow — "…doesn't mean she will."
Maizel gave a slight nod, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Jim stepped out into the dark. Maizel followed.
Aualine was pacing mid-stride, restless, her claws silent on the stone. When Jim called —
"Oi."
— she turned. Her eyes locked on him, and she let out a soft chuff, padding over with a kind of uncertain grace. There was something in her expression — as close to shame as a creature like her could show.
Jim reached out and gently ran a hand down the length of her snout and neck.
"Oi, oi… There was nothing you coulda done," he said softly.
She let out a small breath, her tension easing at Jim's words.
Then her gaze slid past him — and locked onto Maizel.
Aualine's head tilted, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Her golden pupils burned sharp in the moonlight, reflecting back the cabin's faint glow. She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, each movement full of the kind of predator's grace that made the air between heartbeats stretch long.
Jim saw Maizel stiffen. She was trying to keep the cool, unaffected mask on — shoulders square, chin lifted — but it was hard to hold when facing down a scaled predator taller than a horse. They locked eyes. Neither moved. The night seemed to hold its breath.
Then Maizel exhaled. Slowly, carefully, she raised both hands, showing empty palms. No threat. No spell forming. Just surrender.
Aualine stepped forward, closer still, until her breath stirred the loose strands of Maizel's hair. Her nose hovered inches from the girl's face. She sniffed once, twice — long, deliberate inhales that carried the weight of judgement. Her gaze didn't blink. Didn't soften. She was watching, measuring, weighing.
Then — with a shift in posture almost too subtle to see — Aualine bumped her with her snout. A soft, solid gesture that carried more meaning than words ever could. She chuffed again, a low, breathy sound, full of warmth rather than challenge, and glanced at Jim.
The tension vanished from her frame.
Maizel barely kept her balance from the nudge, her boots scraping lightly against the packed earth, but she steadied herself quickly. Aualine gave her another playful shove, lighter this time — the same way she did with Emile or Jim when she felt comfortable.
And just like that, she turned, tail flicking in the air like a banner, and bounded off into the dark. Not to rest, not to retreat, but to keep watch somewhere nearby. Still alert. Still guarding. But no longer carrying the shame of being sidelined.
"She passed the test," Jim thought, a small spark of approval flickering behind his eyes. "Good."
Maizel looked at him, brow furrowed. "What was that?"
"She just weighed and measured you, lass…" Jim said with a faint smile, "…and you weren't found wanting."
He held out his glass. "Wanna drink?"
She took it without hesitation and knocked back the half-glass of whiskey in one go. Not a flinch, not even a blink. She handed the empty glass back without a word, the faint burn leaving a trace of colour in her cheeks.
"Want another?" Jim asked.
She nodded.
He ducked inside and returned a few seconds later with the bottle and a second glass. He poured them both a generous serving, the liquid glinting amber in the moonlight, and leaned back against the cabin wall.
"So…" he said, watching her over the rim of his drink. "How you holding up?"
Maizel took a long drink, then exhaled slowly, letting the whiskey's heat chase some of the night's chill from her bones.
"I'm… good," she said.
But Jim saw through it — the mask, the posture, the careful tone. Beneath it, he saw what she was really holding back: fear. Not the kind that made you weak. The kind that sat deep in the marrow, the kind that lingered even when you stood your ground.
He squinted. "This your first mission?"
She nodded.
"Aye. And what a shit show it is," Jim muttered, running a thumb along the rim of his glass. "No fault of your own," he added quickly, raising a hand before she could speak.
They stood in silence for a beat, nursing their drinks. The night hummed around them — the rustle of hedges, the distant creak of wood, the steady padding of Aualine's patrol out in the dark.
"What brought you to the Atakin Order?" he asked at last, voice low, almost casual.
Maizel looked at him for a long moment, then took another sip. Her shoulders eased just a touch, the whiskey loosening the edge she carried.
"Nothing," she said. "I didn't choose them. They chose me."
She shrugged, eyes flicking away.
"I was plucked out of a school — similar to this one. Showed some skill. Power. Then one day, they showed up. Gave me an offer. Promised I'd help save the world."
A bitter little smile tugged at her lip.
"I was young."
Jim shook his head with a low chuckle, the sound more breath than humour. "You still are, lass," he said, voice warm but edged with something quieter — regret maybe, or memory. "And if you don't like it... you still can change it. That's the bit folk always forget — you've still got a choice."
Maizel pursed her lips, considering that. She gave a slow, thoughtful nod but didn't meet his eyes.
"Do you still like it?" Jim asked, watching her closely over the rim of his glass.
She hesitated. "I… I like the idea of it," she said finally. "Of what the Atakins say they stand for. The ideals. The mission. All that." She looked down into her glass, the liquid catching faint moonlight. "But the methods? The politics? The way they treat people like tools to be spent?" She shook her head, lips tight. "That part I'm not so sure about."
Jim nodded slowly. "Aye. That's youth. Questioning things is how it should be. There's nothing stopping you from building something better. You're young, you've got time. And you've got a spine — most important part."
She took another deep drink, the liquid going down without a blink, then reached for the bottle between them. Her fingers lingered on the neck of it, knuckles pale in the firelight.
"Do you mind?" she asked, already tilting it as if the answer was a formality.
Jim shrugged, heavy-shouldered and indifferent. "Be my guest."
Maizel refilled her glass, the whiskey catching a dull gleam in the lamplight, then leaned her shoulder against the cabin wall. She studied him with a kind of sharpness that came only after exhaustion and liquor — that rising edge of drunken boldness.
"You say that," she said at last. "That we can build something better. But what about you?"
Jim raised an eyebrow, curious but unmoved. She continued, her words steady now, each one carrying weight.
"You could have done the same. Could've been an Atakin. Lack of access to the Source aside," she added, smirking faintly. "I read your file, you know. The stuff you got up to? It's borderline myth. You were the tip of the spear. You fought in the worst of it, when the Umber had half the east under their thumb."
Jim didn't reply at first. He just sipped his whiskey, eyes fixed on something far away — not the cabin, not the night sky, but some memory carved deep enough to still bleed.
"How many camps did you liberate?" Maizel asked, voice softer now.
"Seven," Jim said, his voice low and even. No pride. No flare of drama. Just a fact laid bare. Then he took another drink, slower this time, the glass steady in his scarred hand. "Seven officially."
Maizel looked down, the weight of the number settling between them like ash falling in silence.
"I also read," she said, swirling the whiskey in her glass, "that you went absent from duty."
Her voice was casual, but the words weren't. They cut.
"Which usually means one of two things — mental break… or rogue."
She paused to take another sip, her eyes never leaving his, studying him over the rim.
"I'm leaning more toward AWOL — but not from combat. That's not what your profile says."
Jim didn't flinch. He didn't argue. He just took a long pull from his own glass, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he set it down. Then he looked at her over the brim, eyes narrowed into tired slits.
"Aye. I did."
He exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that came from deep in the bones, and let the silence hang like a curtain.
His eyes drifted around the clearing — not looking at anything in particular, but searching for something invisible. Something lost.
"We were ordered to stop liberating the camps," he said at last. "Said it was slowing us down. Said the prisoners were too weak to fight. Just a drain on the logistics chain."
He gave a bitter little laugh, no humour in it. "Can't carry the war and the wounded, they said."
Maizel stayed quiet. The weight of it did the talking for her.
"So we decided," Jim said, leaning back against the wall, "to take a little break."
His tone was flat, but the heat under it hadn't cooled. Not in years.
Maizel raised an eyebrow. "You say 'we.' How many of you?"
Jim looked at the sky for a moment, as if counting stars, then back at her.
"Two. Just the two of us. Me and Eulana."
Maizel tilted her head, sharp curiosity flashing. "Eulana?"
He smiled faintly — not the grin he wore like armour, but something more fragile.
"She was… what you'd class as my mount," he said, reaching out to gently pat Aualine's flank. "Fine creature. Graceful. Strong. Loyal."
He glanced sideways at Aualine, who huffed, ears twitching at the sound of her name.
"Much like her."
Maizel didn't press — not yet. But she could see it in his face: that name meant more than he was letting on. That "break" wasn't a break at all. It was the line he crossed and never returned from.
"We hit every camp we could take alone," Jim said, voice low and taut. "And even a few we had no right to survive."
He took a deep swig of his drink, the glass trembling slightly in his hand as he forced it down.
"Saved thousands — women, children, men… barely more than bones, most of 'em. But we got 'em out."
He took another long drink. Didn't speak for a moment. The silence sat heavy, like smoke that clung and refused to lift.
Maizel watched him, saw the tension in his jaw. She knew he wasn't planning to continue — so she pushed.
"What ended it?" she asked. "Your one-man war?"
Jim let out a quiet breath. Then, almost too casually, he said,
"I got cocky."
He looked down into his glass, whiskey swirling in uneven circles.
"I chose Unaga."
Maizel's eyes widened. Just a flicker, but he caught it.
"Aye," he said, almost amused at her reaction. "You've heard of it."
She nodded slowly. "The Night Dancer stronghold."
"Aye. That one."
He rolled the glass in his hand, the amber liquid catching the moonlight.
"I fucked it. Hard. Once we breached the cloud cover, they were on us. Thick as flies. Swarming. I tried to fall back — make a fighting retreat — but we couldn't lose 'em. Not fast enough."
He tapped his temple lightly, the knuckle making a dull sound against bone. "Took a spectr-burst. Scalp wound. Blinded me with my own blood." His tone was flat, but there was grit in it, the kind that sanded words down to their bare edges.
Maizel said nothing. Just watched him speak, her glass paused halfway to her lips.
"Eulana… she fought us free," Jim continued, voice low but steady. "Carried me. Flew blind through storms and arrows and sorcery, like a bloody angel. Got us out, ten miles clear before she made landfall."
He stared past Maizel now, not at her but through her, eyes glassy but dry.
"I got my sight back. Washed the blood from my eyes. But once I could see…" He swallowed. Hard. His throat worked around the wordless weight.
"She was there, in the dirt. Broken. Torn up bad. Took the worst of it — my stupid bloody decision."
He paused, jaw tightening as though the memory itself pressed teeth against bone. His knuckles were white around the glass, fingers trembling ever so slightly with the strain of holding still.
"She was dying, and I… I couldn't do anything. Just sat with her. Held her head in my lap while she drifted off into the abyss."
The words were flat, but the silence after them screamed.
Maizel lowered her eyes, but Jim wasn't finished. His voice came again, quieter now, rougher.
"I stayed there. Sat with her till the sun began to rise. Till I saw the Night Dancers on the ridgeline, closing in."
He blinked slowly, finally looked back at Maizel.
"And I ran. Only time I ever did."
He emptied the rest of his drink with a sharp tilt of the wrist, the liquid burning down like penance, his face giving no sign of relief.
Maizel studied him for a long moment, her eyes scanning his face like a mirror she wasn't sure she wanted to look into. She watched the subtle shifts—the slight pull at the corner of his mouth, the faint narrowing of his eyes, the way his shoulders sat—not braced for battle, not weighed by guilt or pride, just… still. Solid.
There were no lies in him. No performance.
She'd spent her life mastering the art of misdirection, wearing roles like armour—student, agent, inquisitor, tool. Every word calculated. Every glance weaponised. She knew how to spot a mask. But when she looked at Jim, she saw no mask. No bluster. No self-pity. Just the raw, undressed truth of a man who had lived far too long in the company of ghosts.
Jim met her gaze, unflinching, but not challenging. Just there. Just him.
She took a slow, deep drink, draining the rest of her glass, the fire of it seeping down her throat like liquid honesty. Then she let the last of her pretence drop, like a weight that had finally become too heavy to carry. She wasn't Maizel the agent anymore. Not here. Not in this moment.
"I'm Jessica," she said quietly. "That's my real name."
Jim raised an eyebrow slightly, a flicker of something passing over his face before he gave a slow nod.
"Jess," he said, like he was trying the name out on his tongue. "Alright, then."
There was a beat of silence between them—soft, but full. Then she added, almost like an accusation but softer, "Why did you tell me all that?"
Jim looked back at her with a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Like you said—you read my file. Thought you deserved the story that wasn't written down."
She let the weight of that settle between them, the meaning unspoken but felt all the same.
Then she gestured loosely at the bottle, the faintest smile playing at her lips.
"Another drink?"
"Aye," Jim said, picking it up with one hand and pouring them each a generous measure. "I think it's called for."
They clinked glasses, not in celebration, but in quiet understanding. Two tired souls in a world that rarely made space for truth, sharing what little they had left to offer.

 

[Yeetboi]

So Jim wasn't just a badass from the war against the Umbar, he was The Badass from the war against the Umbar.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Badass alcoholic Hagrid with a sword. That's Jim.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim woke with a start, a low grunt catching in his throat. The light pouring through the windows was sharp and golden — midday sun, unrelenting and judgemental. His eyelids squeezed shut against it, lashes damp with sweat, and the familiar throb was already setting in behind his eyes.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice dry and gravelled. His tongue felt like sandpaper, his throat raw from smoke, shouting, and whiskey. His head was pounding like a war drum, each beat a reminder of how far into the bottle he'd gone last night. He remembered the inky blue tint of early morning, the hush after Maizel — Jessica, he reminded himself — had turned in. Talking about the past had pulled old wounds wide open, and whiskey had been the only bandage he could reach for. Not a fix, just a way to scab things over until tomorrow.

With a wince, he rose slowly, joints protesting. His body felt like rusted metal — overworked, under-rested, and liable to seize up at the wrong moment. He rubbed at his face, felt the stubble rasp against his palm, then shuffled toward the kitchen. A warm, savoury smell crept up to meet him.

Bacon. And eggs. Cooked fresh.

He blinked. The kitchen was empty — no one in sight — but on the table sat a plate, still steaming. He hovered there a moment, then eased into the chair like a man twice his age. His hand shook faintly as he picked up the fork. He stared at the food as though it might judge him, then gave a resigned grunt and forced himself to eat. Chewing was work. Swallowing felt like dragging gravel down his throat. But the salt, the fat, the warmth — it was life clawing its way back.

Halfway through, he heard it — a sound from outside. A deep, guttural purring, low and resonant, like a giant cat in contentment. It reverberated through the walls. He reached for the jug of water beside the plate, drank the whole thing in a few long gulps, then groaned as he got to his feet again.

The morning — no, afternoon — greeted him as he stepped out onto the porch. The air smelled sharp, green with cut grass and damp earth. Aualine was in the clearing, bounding with playful energy, her powerful frame moving like liquid steel. Emile laughed, breathless and bright, trying to keep up. And on the porch, legs crossed, a mug in hand, sat Jessica.

Jim walked over and stood beside her. She didn't look up right away, just watched the scene with a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"How's your head?" he asked, his voice still rough.

She looked up at him with a squint and a teasing grin. "By the looks of it… better than yours."

"Aye," Jim grunted as he lowered himself to the ground, his joints cracking like dry twigs.

"Ah, Jim! You're up," Emile called, jogging over. Sweat glistened on his brow, his smile wide and genuine. "Did you eat?"

"Aye, lad. Cheers for it."

Emile's smile deepened — that quiet kind of pride you saw when someone did something small, but meaningful.

Before Jim could say more, Aualine thundered up behind Emile and gave him a playful shove between the shoulder blades. The lad staggered forward, laughing.

"Looks like the lady's not done with you," Jim said with a wry grin.

"Apparently not," Emile called over his shoulder as he took off running again, Aualine bounding ahead like an oversized, winged hound with a need to win every race.

Jim shook his head, the hint of a smile playing on his face. That lad had been through hell — and somehow came back brighter.

"Here," Jess said, stepping beside him. She held out a steaming tin pot in one hand and a battered old mug in the other. The sharp, bitter scent of strong coffee hit him like a punch.

Jim's eyes lit up. He set the mug aside and skipped the middleman, drinking straight from the pot in long, satisfied gulps.

"You're supposed to pour it, you animal," Jess muttered, sitting beside him.

Jim ignored the comment, still clutching the pot like a holy relic, draining the bitter, beautiful, much-needed ebony nectar in long, thankful gulps. Coffee — gods' blood, as far as he was concerned.

The rest of the day passed in rare, quiet peace. They spent it like people, not fugitives or agents or students — just three souls existing without monsters in the dark or spells overhead.

Except Jim.

He spent most of the day wrapped in a blanket of self-inflicted misery, groaning like a dying animal and swearing off booze with absolute conviction. Phrases like "never again" and "what in the seven hells was I thinking" were mumbled between sips of water and periods of catatonic silence. Every clink of cutlery was a personal attack. He even muttered once that the gods were punishing him for drinking, and he deserved it.

Evening came slow, soft. They all gathered around the dining table — Emile and Jess chatting quietly, still riding the fragile high of survival and connection. Jim sat hunched at the end, eyes narrow, face grim.

Then he reached under the table and produced a familiar bottle.

Emile raised a brow. Jess squinted at him.

Jim gave a lazy shrug and popped the cork. "Bit of hair o' the dog," he said, pouring a modest glass. "Swearin' off it's for folk with less experience."

Jess leaned back with a smirk. "You're incorrigible."

"Just consistent," Jim said, raising his glass in a shaky salute. "To survival — and regrettable decisions."

Jim was up before the sun this time. The air was still cool, damp with the fading breath of night, dew clinging to the grass like a thousand tiny eyes. He stepped out quietly, boots crunching on the gravel as he made his way to where Aualine had curled up beside the cabin. She always chose that spot — just close enough to keep watch, but far enough to give the others their space.

As he approached, he moved slowly, not wanting to startle her. But her eyes were already open, glowing faintly in the half-light. She uncurled in a long, deliberate stretch, sinewy and smooth, like a housecat — if housecats were the size of oxen and could melt steel with a glance. The movement rippled down her frame, muscles sliding under scales, and she let out a low chuff, deep in her chest, like gravel rolling in a barrel.

"Aye, lass," Jim muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. "I know it's early... but I need you."
He paused, then added softly, "Emile needs you."

That made her eyes lock on him — amber slits narrowing with focus, with something almost human in their depth. Understanding passed between them without another word. She huffed once, sharp and low, and rose to her feet, claws leaving shallow furrows in the dirt.

"Come on," Jim said, turning on his heel. "I'll explain on the move."

She fell in beside him without hesitation, her claws clicking softly on the stones. Together, they walked into the grey light of the coming day — towards whatever mess Jim was about to kick off.

Twelve hours later, Jim stood once again on the edge of the viewing platform, arms folded, jaw tight.

Below, the arena slowly came alive. The stands were filling — a steady, disciplined stream of students, teachers, and spectators pouring in through the gates in neat columns, then breaking apart like a tide over the stone seating. Excitement radiated from them, thick as heat on summer cobbles. This was the final game. The grand finale.

The air buzzed with energy. Cheers rippled here and there, groups chanting names, house colours flickering on banners, bets whispered and shouted over the din. The smell of roasted meat and spiced nuts drifted from vendors, mingling with the tang of sweat and cheap ale.

But Jim didn't feel the excitement. Not even a flicker of it.

He wasn't interested in pageantry. He wasn't interested in cheering crowds or students trying to prove themselves under illusionary glories. All he wanted was for it to be done. The sooner the game was over, the sooner he could resume the real work — hunting the Umber agent that had slipped through their fingers.

His fingers tightened on the railing at that thought.

After what happened in the maze — the blatant attacks, the shift from subtle sabotage to all-out magical artillery — he had no doubt they would try again. The enemy had shown their hand, and Jim knew the best chance at catching them would be when they felt most confident. Most desperate.

So he'd come early. Earlier than anyone.

For the last hour, he'd stood in place, scanning every face that entered through the arena gates. Students, staff, spectators, vendors — no one escaped his gaze. Not one.

He'd memorised features, movements, a hundred half-recognised stances and patterns.

No sign of Emile, Castus, or Jess yet. They hadn't arrived on the staging platform. That was fine. They had time. Jim wanted every moment he could get — not to prepare for the game, but to watch.
To hunt.

Jim watched the crowd filter through the arena gates, eyes scanning every face with the slow patience of a man who'd seen far too much. No one stood out — not really. Just a sea of eager smiles and painted faces, buzzing with the kind of energy only the dangerously misinformed could muster. Kids. Marching in to cheer on their peers as they got bruised, broken, and probably maimed — and doing it with popcorn in hand.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, then pushed off from the railing. No sign of the Umber agent here. Not yet. But he didn't trust still water, and today had the same feel as every ambush he'd ever walked into. Quiet. Too quiet.

Deciding to sweep the stands himself, he started through the student section first — winding through rows of noise and nonsense. Most were just loud and oblivious, draped in house colours or shouting dumb chants. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Well… unless you counted the half dozen students clearly tripping balls on forest mushrooms, giggling at the sky like it owed them money. Or the two passed-out lads who'd clearly gone all-in on pre-game drinks and were now sleeping it off under a banner that said "House Dominis — Victory or Death."

"Probably death," Jim muttered, stepping over one of them.

He worked his way up through the last row of student seats, boots thudding against the wooden planks, ignoring the smell of sweat, spilled ale, and sugar-rotted teeth. By the time he reached the faculty stand, the change in tone was immediate — quieter, colder, dressed in better fabric and thicker egos.

The stand was full this time. The last two games it had been half empty — too early in the term, too little interest. But now? Now it was the final game. Everyone wanted to be seen.

He stepped into the space, eyes already scanning, posture relaxed but alert. Elsmley was the first to greet him — if standing directly in his path and glaring could be called a greeting. His nose was still swaddled in bandages, and both eyes had bloomed into deep shades of purple and green, like bruised fruit.

Jim said nothing.
Elsmley said nothing.

But the stare was molten — bitter, humiliated, and far too proud to address the man who'd rearranged his face like a jigsaw puzzle.

Jim turned, deliberately slow, and met his gaze.
Elsmley looked away first.

Jim smirked — just a twitch at the corner of his mouth — and then turned his attention to the rest of the platform. Professors in fine robes whispered behind hands, old academy sponsors stood chatting with forced politeness, and a few Atakin brass loitered near the edge like wolves in ceremonial armour, polished to gleam beneath the morning light.

He walked past them without a word, hands in his pockets, eyes steady. He wasn't here for them. He was here to make sure nothing went wrong.
And if it did?
Well, then he was here to end it.

The air shifted. All the cheering dropped into silence, as though someone had thrown a switch.

Plandorph stepped forward, robes swaying with over-practised theatrical flair, flanked by the three students: Jessica, Castus, and Emile — the latter with the sword strapped across his back like a weight no one else could carry.

The trio stood shoulder to shoulder on the stage, lit by the overhead runes that shimmered faintly in anticipation. The crowd leaned forward, breaths held, the tension humming like taut string.

"This," Plandorph said, voice echoing unnaturally across the arena, "is the final game."

He let the words hang, milking the pause. "We began this season with many. Now only three remain — three fine exemplars of the ethos of Riordan Academy."

Jim arched a brow. Exemplars, was it now?

"They have come far," Plandorph continued, arms spread wide like a cheap stage magician. "But one final hurdle remains."

He clapped his hands together with a flourish — an overly grand gesture as though summoning thunder itself.

What actually burst from the tips of his fingers could only be described, in Jim's professional opinion, as the littlest whizz-pop ever conjured. A pathetic sputter of light and noise, like a firework sneezing itself to death.

Jim blinked. "Well," he muttered, "that was underwhelming as ever."

With the last pitiful fizzle of Plandorph's spell still hanging in the air like an embarrassed cough, a deep mechanical groan echoed from below. Jim's gaze shifted as a thick steel gate at the edge of the arena rumbled open, scraping against stone and gravel.

A guttural roar rolled out of the darkness beyond, long and raw, like thunder tearing through a mountain cave. The crowd collectively inhaled, awe and fear twisting together in their chests.

Then — glowing amber eyes pierced the gloom.

Claws raked against the gravel, carving deep gouges with each heavy step. The earth seemed to tremble as the creature stalked into view. Torchlight spilled across its form, revealing scales like burnished iron and smoke curling from its nostrils.

An enraged dragon.

Or, at least, one doing a bloody convincing job of pretending.

Jim's lips twitched despite himself, forming the faintest trace of a smile before he shoved it down.
Good girl, he thought.

Aualine stormed into the pit with theatrical fury, tail whipping, wings flaring, and eyes blazing. She let out another roar — one that sent a few students near the front rows scrambling back — then began to pace, bouncing on her feet like a boxer before a match. She was, to Jim's trained eye, hamming it up gloriously.

Emile, Jess, and Castus stood at the edge of the arena, eyes locked on the beast before them. Aualine stormed in like a living thunderclap, tail whipping behind her, claws tearing trenches into the gravel floor. Her roar rolled through the space like a shockwave, shaking dust from the rafters and igniting a fresh wave of cheers from the crowd.

Emile and Jess both slid into their roles with practiced ease. Jess wore a cold, unreadable mask — all quiet confidence and coiled tension. Emile's face was more raw, focused but barely containing the storm underneath. Then there was Castus… who looked like he was seconds from pissing himself again. Wide-eyed and stiff, he stood there like a boy trying to remember how to run.

The steel gate behind them groaned open. The crowd leaned in, breathless.

Emile and Jess stepped forward. Castus followed a beat later, hesitant, unsure.

The objective was simple enough on paper: tame the beast, or subdue it long enough to claim the glittering, oversized egg sitting behind it. No easy task. And if you were really bold, you could try to outrun death itself and snatch the egg without even touching the dragon. But that took teamwork — and Riordan hadn't exactly raised them to be comrades. More like rivals in matching uniforms.

The three of them entered the arena floor, stepping briefly in line. Jim watched from above, one brow raised as he took a drink.

Right. Let's see if you remember the plan.

Without a word, Emile broke left, fast and low to the ground, moving like a shadow across the torchlit dust. Jess broke right, swift and poised, her body language calm but alert. She didn't need a weapon — her posture alone was enough to make Aualine turn and track her with cautious eyes.

Castus lingered, clearly torn between the urge to run and the shame of doing it in front of an audience. He stumbled forward, half-heartedly committing to the centre line, his hands twitching by his sides as if unsure whether to fight, flee, or beg for mercy.

Aualine reared up and let out another roar, amber eyes blazing. She lunged, sending gravel spraying as her claws slammed into the earth just shy of Emile, who narrowly dodged the blow and rolled into a crouch, keeping his momentum. The shockwave of her landing rattled the first two rows of the crowd, drawing shrieks and exhilarated shouts.

The crowd exploded with cheers, whistles, and frantic bets shouted across the stands.

Jess didn't flinch. She sidestepped smoothly, locking eyes with the dragon. Her shoulders dropped just slightly — not in fear, but in control. Measured, precise. She didn't run. She didn't posture. She just was. And that made Aualine hesitate.

Jim caught the flicker of something like recognition in Aualine's movements.
That's it, girl, he thought. Make it real.

Aualine growled and turned, snapping her tail around in a mock sweep that sent Castus diving to the dirt, face first. Jess moved again, drawing her attention away.

And just like that, the show had begun.

They continued the song and dance, weaving around Aualine's thunderous stomps and snarled feints. Every now and then, if someone was really paying attention — someone not just caught up in the spectacle — they'd see her slightly mistime one of her mock attacks. A wingbeat too slow, a lunge that paused just long enough to give Emile or Jess space to dodge. Subtle cues, little tells. Jim glanced down at his watch — ten minutes had passed.

He caught sight of Jess slipping further away from the gaudy, gem-encrusted egg. Aualine followed, roaring and snapping for show. Good girl, Jim thought, the corner of his mouth twitching into a restrained smile. That's it, keep the crowd busy.

Emile, watching from his side of the arena, saw Jess luring Aualine away and nodded. Showtime.

He sprinted toward the egg, keeping low, legs pumping. The noise of the crowd faded under the thrum in his ears. But there was… something. An odd prickling in the air — like the skin on the back of his neck tightening, a static charge hanging in the air. He shook it off. No time for second thoughts.

Twenty yards.
He grinned.

Then the world shook.

Aualine slammed down in front of him, wings flared wide, tail cracking gravel behind her. Emile skidded to a halt, boots sliding. "No, no, no— You're not supposed to be here," he said, breath catching. "You're meant to be with Jess."

He said it loudly, hoping she'd snap out of whatever—

But then he saw her eyes.

Not the intelligent glint of the creature he knew — but a deep, rolling red mist, leaking from her eyes and nostrils. Flames danced at the edges of her mouth, yes, but it wasn't just fire anymore.

It was wrong.
It was tainted.

The hairs on Emile's arms stood straight.

"Oh shit."

"Run!"

He heard it — Jess's voice, shrill with panic, cutting through the chaos from the far side of the arena.

Aualine was crouched low, her wings flared wide, flames building in her throat like a furnace about to burst. Emile stood frozen, eyes locked on hers — still expecting the gentle giant he'd trained beside. But something was wrong. So very wrong.

Aualine's mouth glowed — not just with fire, but with something darker. Red mist leaked from the corners of her eyes, curling like smoke from a dying star. Jim saw it too.

"No…" he breathed.

Aualine let loose the fireball — but not at Emile. It tore to his left, scorching gravel and kicking up a cloud of ash. She missed on purpose.

She was still in there.

A strangled mix of roar and whimper came from her throat — not a war cry, but a scream. She was trying to fight it, trying to hold it back — and losing.

Jim's heart slammed in his chest.
Not her. Not Aualine. Please…

He saw it then. She was trembling, her claws gouging into the earth, her whole frame quaking. Her body tried to lunge but jerked back, like a beast on a chain. Every muscle screamed with resistance. Her will against whatever magic had sunk its hooks into her.

Jim spun, eyes sweeping the stands, scanning the sea of faces.

Faculty, brass, students, sponsors — hundreds of them. Their faces blurred into a grotesque gallery: confusion, awe, delight. Not one of them understood. Not one of them saw what he saw.

"Come on… where are you?" he muttered, words little more than breath. "Give me something. Give me time."

He moved. Fast. Reckless. Shoulders brushing through robes and polished boots as he forced his way down the row. A few startled professors hissed his name, but he didn't hear them.

Because if Aualine went under…
If they broke her…
There'd be no pulling her back.

And there'd be no pulling Jim back either.

He scoured the faces, jaw clenched tight. Elmsley stood smug and silent, nose still swaddled in thick bandages, his bruised eyes glittering with malice. Plandorph leaned forward with childlike glee, his fat hands clapping as if this were fireworks and not bloodsport.

Sick fuck, Jim thought.

And then he saw her.

Alexa.

Standing near the railing, robes neat, hair in place. Not cheering. Not afraid. Just… focused. Too focused.

Jim's gut turned cold.

He pushed through the last of the crowd until he stood at her shoulder. Followed her gaze. Down to the arena floor. To Aualine, still bucking, still roaring, still fighting the enchantment with every ounce of her soul.

Then back up.

Sweat rolled down Alexa's temple. Not nerves — strain. And her eyes… her eyes weren't confused. They weren't frightened. They were gleaming. Hungry. Enjoying it.

Just like in the maze.
In the tunnel.
Before it collapsed.

She turned to him then, her lips twitching into the faintest smile.

"What's wrong, Jim?"

"You're the agent," Jim growled. His hand snapped forward before she could even blink.

CRACK.

His fist smashed into her face. Bone crunched. She dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

At that exact moment, Aualine let out a roar that rattled the bones of everyone present — not fury, not theatre, but a cry of agony and release. The red mist bled from her eyes like smoke sucked up a chimney. She sagged, collapsed in the dirt.

The stands erupted in chaos. Outrage. Shouts.

Elmsley jabbed a finger toward Jim, his voice shrill with vindication. "See! I told you! Violent — unrestrained! He's an animal!"

"What in the bloody hell are you doing, Jim?" Plandorph snapped, robes flaring as he stepped forward. Faculty swarmed Alexa, some hauling her up, others moving to surround Jim.

Jim turned on them like a wolf cornered. His eyes blazed, his snarl low and guttural. The sound stopped them cold. Even the boldest shrank back.

"You fucking pompous windbag," Jim snarled at Plandorph. "She's the agent. She killed the cook. She murdered that lad. You don't even remember his name, do you?"

Plandorph's mouth flapped open, empty. "It was… investigated. There was no—"

"Shut the fuck up," Jim spat.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

All eyes snapped to Alexa.

She was rising. Blood streamed down her face — but worse than that, the glamour was gone. Cracked. Splintered.

Black glyphs writhed across her pale skin, crawling like serpents, etching themselves into her flesh. Lines of living shadow seared across her brow, her throat, her cheeks.

Jim's heart sank. He knew those markings.

"Glyphs," he whispered. His voice was ash. "Night Dancer glyphs…"

Plandorph staggered back as if struck, his cheeks drained of colour. "Fuck me…" he croaked.

Alexa lifted her chin. Met Jim's eyes. And smiled with bloody teeth.

"It was only a matter of time, eh?" Her voice slurred now, guttural, tinged with the slick cadence of Umber. The words dripped like oil.

Then she rolled her shoulders.

A shockwave burst out from her body—dark and heavy, like gravity tearing loose. The air itself seemed to buckle, groaning under the weight of it. Those closest were flung back as if struck by a giant's hand, robes whipping, limbs flailing, crashing hard to the stone. The sound of bones hitting marble rang out sharp and ugly.

Jim dropped low, instinct taking over. He rolled under the blast, teeth gritted, every muscle braced. Dust and loose parchment spun through the air as the wave passed. By the time he came up on one knee, his knife was already in his hand, gleaming dull silver in the rune-light. His chest heaved, heart hammering like a war drum.

He surged toward her, every step eating the space between them. His vision narrowed, the rest of the arena fading into blur. It was just him and her, predator and prey.
I'm not letting this bitch get away. Not after all this.

But Alexa didn't stand her ground.

Instead, she dived backwards off the platform — robes snapping, arms wide — and didn't fall.

Gasps tore from the faculty around him.

She landed in the air itself, as if invisible glass lay beneath her. And then she began to run.

Her bare feet tapped on nothing, each step sending faint ripples across the empty space. Wrong. So wrong. It was the Night Dancers' trick, the thing Jim had seen too many times before. Their answer to dragons. Their blasphemous mockery of flight. A cold, elegant nightmare that made the world itself their battlefield.

As she sprinted skyward, faster than any mortal had a right to, she threw her head back and let out a long, wobbling scream.

The sound was hideous — part shriek, part song, warbling in and out like a bone flute played by a madman. It cut through the lungs, rattled in the bones, made the air itself shiver.

A second later, it was answered — by dozens more.

Figures erupted into view all around the arena, bursting from shadow like crows scattering at dawn. Clad in shifting black armour that seemed to drink the light, their masks were stretched into grotesque bird skulls, eyes glowing with sickly amber fire. Night Dancers. A full cadre, sprinting through the sky as though it were woven strands of silk, their movements fluid, impossible, spiderlike.

"Fuck," Jim muttered, the word torn raw from his throat.

The arena erupted. Screams rose in waves, hundreds of voices breaking all at once. Some wailed, others choked on gasps, but the sound grew, swelling into the heavy roar of panic. Fear bloomed like a sickness, contagious and violent.

And Jim's voice cut through it all like a cleaver.

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE ARENA!"

It wasn't a plea. It was a roar — command, survival, raw instinct. His voice boomed over the chaos, and for a heartbeat the mob froze. Then the spell broke.

The students bolted. Whole sections of the stands spilled outward, bodies trampling over benches, house colours tearing loose, banners crushed beneath boots. The faculty scrambled, too slow, trying to impose order on a tide of panic that could not be contained. The arena became a living storm.

Jim turned sharply, knife still clenched, eyes cutting to the pit below.

And his heart sank.

Emile and Jess were still down there, kneeling in the dust beside Aualine's slumped form. The dragon's wings twitched weakly, smoke curling from her jaws. Emile was shouting something, Jess's hands glowing faint with the dregs of magic — trying to rouse her.

"First things first," Jim growled. His throat was raw, but his voice carried, flat with iron.

And then he moved — launching himself down the stairs two, three at a time, boots slamming against wood and stone, never breaking stride.

The hunt was over. The war had just begun.

 

[Simonbob]

Darn.


What an awesome mess.

 

[Yeetboi]

The further this goes, the more incompetent and impotent Paladorph and the faculty looks.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Emile and Jess knelt beside Aualine's massive, still body as Jim sprinted into the chaos of the arena. The roar of the crowd had collapsed into panic, a sound as thick and choking as smoke. Screams echoed off the high stone walls, sharp and panicked — the sound of students and faculty alike caught in something far bigger than themselves.

Bolts of blue, green, and violet arced through the air, streaking overhead like wild embers from a bonfire blasted apart by wind. The crackle of magic mixed with the stench of burning stone and scorched cloth. Some spells burst harmlessly against the marble stands in showers of sparks. Others found their marks with a sickening crack, hurling bodies backward or dropping them like stones.

Clearly, someone up there still had some fight left in them. Mages — teachers, maybe even a few desperate students — were trying to mount a defence, or at the very least buy time. Jim caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure on the far platform, their arms glowing, hurling spells in rapid succession with furious precision. The air around them rippled with heat. But it wasn't enough.

Here and there, bodies in ebony armour already littered the arena floor, dark shapes twisted in unnatural heaps. Night Dancers. Some had fallen. Good. But far too many were still running — weaving between bodies and through the battlefield with that same fluid, inhuman speed Jim had seen before. The way they moved made his gut twist; he'd seen that same blur once before, long ago, when he'd been foolish enough to take on a stronghold alone.

He skidded to a halt beside Emile and Jess. Both looked up at him, fear raw in their faces but still braced, still ready to hold their ground. Aualine lay motionless between them, her scales dulled, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged heaves. Alive — but barely. Jess had her hands pressed to the dragon's cheek, whispering something low and urgent, part words, part desperate comfort.

Jim's gaze swept the stands, then the black sky above. More Night Dancers were circling closer, moving like hunting dogs tightening a ring. His voice came out low and hard, cutting through the panic like a blade.

"We need to move. Now."

"What about Aualine?" Emile blurted, his voice cracking, wide eyes locked on the dragon. "We can't leave her — I mean, is she going to live?"

Jim dropped to one knee, pressing his ear against the warm, ridged scales of her chest. For a long, dragging moment, the only sound was his own blood pounding in his ears. Then — faint, steady. A slow breath. The dull thump of a heart still fighting.

"Breathing and heartbeat steady," Jim muttered. Relief flickered across his face, but only for a second. The urgency never left. "She's out cold. Like a soldier down but still breathing."

He turned back, eyes sharp. "We need to hide her. Can either of you cast a glamour? Camouflage? Anything?"

There was a slight tremble in his tone — not panic, but something close. They couldn't move her, not in time, and Jim knew it.

Emile swallowed hard, then nodded. "I can… I think. Just—talk to me while I do it. Please."

Jess didn't hesitate. She shifted her stance, back to Emile, scanning the edge of the arena. "We've got you. Just focus."

Jim gave him a firm nod. "Breathe steady. You've got this, lad. I've seen you do harder things."

Emile pressed both hands flat against Aualine's side. The heat of her body thrummed against his palms as he shut his eyes. Magic shimmered, weak at first, flickering like a candle about to gutter out. His shoulders trembled with the effort.

Jim leaned close, voice steady, grounding him. "Picture her under the trees in the clearing. Dappled light on her scales. Think of her fading into the colours around her. Not hidden. Blended."

The shimmer steadied. Slowly, the massive form of Aualine began to blur at the edges, bleeding into gravel, scorched earth, and dust. Inch by inch, she seemed to dissolve into the battlefield itself, like a half-forgotten dream.

Jess kept her eyes outward, jaw tight. Jim's hand pressed once to Emile's shoulder, anchoring him. "That's it. Hold it. You're doing fine."

Finally, Aualine was gone from sight. Not gone — never gone — but masked under the thin veil of illusion, hidden from any quick glance.

Emile sagged backward, sweat beading on his brow, chest heaving. "She's there," he panted. "But they won't see her unless they're right on top of her."

Jim gave a short, firm nod. "That'll do." His eyes lifted again to the chaos raging around them.

"So… what's the plan now?" Emile asked, his voice tight, still high with adrenaline.

Jim didn't miss a beat. "We fight them."

Jess snapped her head toward him, sharp and immediate. "No. We follow them."

Jim raised a brow. "Follow them? Through the air? Into a bloody storm of Night Dancers?"

"Look." Jess jerked her chin skyward.

Above them, the night was alive with movement. Dozens of Night Dancers streaked past the arena, their dark forms rippling like smoke, heading not down into the pit — but outward. A tide of shadows flowing toward the old Riordan on the hill, their glowing eyes like a trail of dying embers in the dark.

"They're not after us," Jess said. "Not anymore. I think they've found what they were looking for."

Jim narrowed his eyes. His body was ready for violence — every muscle taut, every nerve alive — but now his mind had to switch gears. The fight was still there, simmering under his skin, but it had to be tempered into purpose.

"We need to make sure they don't get it," she pressed. Her tone had none of its usual cool detachment. It was urgent, almost desperate. "If they do… there's no telling what happens next."

"What is it they're after?" Emile asked, voice barely above a whisper. He already suspected the answer, but needed her to say it.

Jess hesitated, lips parting then closing again. Finally: "If it's the Chrysalis…" She looked Jim dead in the eye. "…then everything you fought to stop back then — every horror, every war crime — it'll come back. Only worse. A hundred times worse. We won't stop it. No one will."

For a moment, Jim was utterly still. That single word — Chrysalis — seemed to light something in him, as though she'd shoved a hot poker down his throat. His jaw tensed. His eyes darkened. Jess could see the hesitation there, the weight of history pressing on his shoulders like a millstone he'd carried for decades. She didn't know what he'd seen. But she knew enough to know he believed her.

Then his nostrils flared, and his lips curled into a grim snarl.
"Aye. Fuck it," he said. "Let's stop the bastards."

Jess nodded once, sharply.

Emile unsheathed the long sword strapped to his back and held it out to Jim, eyes wide with reverence. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the raw need to put the weapon into hands he trusted.
"Here—take it. You'll need it more than me."

Jim looked down at the blade, then back to Emile. He shook his head.
"Nah, lad. That's yours now. You've earned it. I'm sure I'll find another along the way."

He gave Emile a rough pat on the shoulder, a spark of pride flickering in his tired eyes, a silent don't break, boy — not now.

Then, with a grunt, he crouched low and began moving toward the shattered gate of the arena.
"Right," he muttered. "Let's get cracking."

Behind him, Jess and Emile followed — one a storm cloaked in calm, the other a flame burning with new resolve — as chaos painted the night sky in streaks of blue and green and violet fire. The air was thick with smoke, the tang of scorched stone and burnt timber clinging to the back of their throats.

They moved low and fast, boots crunching softly over gravel, ducking beneath crumbling arches and slipping through the smoke-hazed alleys that laced through the academy grounds. Shouts and screams echoed behind them, punctuated by distant bursts of magic and the mournful wails of wounded beasts. Somewhere, far off, a building collapsed with a groan like the earth itself giving up.

Then they saw him — Castus.

He stood frozen, barely concealed in a shallow alcove. His eyes were wide, wild, fixed on the battle above as if seeing ghosts. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, and his hands trembled at his sides, useless. Sweat ran down his face in rivulets, catching the moonlight.

"Castus!" Emile hissed and darted toward him before either of the others could speak. He grabbed the boy by the arm and tugged. "We have to move!"

"Leave him!" Jess snapped, skidding to a halt and glaring back. Her tone was sharp enough to cut stone. "He'll slow us down — or worse, get us killed."

Emile turned to her, eyes hard despite the fear behind them. "I can't. I won't just leave him here. Even if he is an arsehole — he's still on our side." His voice cracked, but the steel underneath it was real.

Jess's jaw clenched. She looked ready to argue, but Jim raised a hand, already watching the shadows ahead for signs of movement. His gaze never left the treeline, his ears pricking at every scrape of claw, every echo of magic.

"If we find a safe place, we stash him there and keep moving," Jim said, voice low but firm. "No heroics. Just smart choices."

Emile gave a grateful nod and turned back to Castus, who had begun to mutter something under his breath — a prayer or a curse, maybe both. He pulled him along, steady and deliberate, like dragging someone back from the edge of a cliff.

Jim watched them for a second longer, a flicker of pride blooming in his chest. Good lad, he thought. The world hasn't burnt the heart out of you yet.
He hoped it never would.

Jess's mouth drew into a flat line, but she didn't argue further. She simply fell into step, silent but taut as a bowstring.

They moved through the broken edge of the arena, slipping into the underbrush beyond. All around them, chaos still echoed — distant spells flaring like lightning behind trees, and the panicked shouts of students fleeing into the woods. The smell of moss and churned earth mixed with the acrid tang of burning stone.

Jim paused just before the treeline, eyes scanning both ground and sky. He saw no Night Dancers chasing the students — not yet. But several ebony shapes were still streaking through the air toward Riordan, long-limbed shadows against the moonlight, moving with that eerie, silent precision that made his blood boil.

Jess caught sight of them too. "We need to pick up the pace," she said, her voice sharp with urgency, every syllable laced with the knowledge that time was a knife pressed to their throats.

Jim turned his head toward her, jaw set. "We go as far as practicable," he said, low and measured. "Run in blind and we'll end up dead. You saw what one of those bastards did the other night — in a group, they're ten times worse. I can attest to that."

She met his eyes. He didn't need to say more. He could see the fire in her — the need to do something — and he didn't blame her. If she was right, if it was this Chrysalis thing… then yeah, the stakes were apocalyptic. But eagerness would get them killed.

"Look, lass…" he said, his voice softening, almost fatherly. "Just… trust me on this. Slow and steady. You rush in, you'll get your throat opened before you even see who swung."

Jess exhaled hard through her nose, jaw tightening, then nodded once. The storm in her eyes didn't vanish, but she leashed it.

Jim gave a small grunt of approval and turned back to the trees. He stepped forward into the brush, every movement measured. Despite the chaos behind them, barely a leaf rustled beneath his boots. Behind him, Jess and Emile dragging Castus followed — quiet shadows in a forest now holding its breath.

They moved like ghosts through the dark — slow, deliberate, methodical. Ten long minutes crawled by. Jim led with the precision of a predator stalking prey. Every few steps he paused, body angled, eyes scanning, ears tuned to the whispers of night. Emile trailed, watching the older man with a quiet awe. There was no hesitation in Jim's movements, no wasted motion. He didn't look like a man moving through danger. He was danger.

Then Jim raised a fist. Emile froze, instincts sharp. Jess mirrored him, crouching low.

Through a gap in the treeline, Emile saw it. A faint blue dome shimmered in the clearing, pulsing with every ragged heartbeat of the mage inside. Shadows circled it, deliberate and patient.

As they neared, the picture sharpened. Elmsley stood at the centre, arms raised, sweat pouring, his face gaunt with strain. Beneath him, two students lay unmoving, one groaning weakly, the other still. The dome crackled, thinning at the edges.

Two Night Dancers circled, blades and claws tapping the barrier like wolves toying with a crippled stag. Their voices were serpentine, slurred with Umbar's cadence.

"Let us in, Magister," one crooned. "We'll make it quick."

"You can't hold it forever," purred the other. "Night Dancers always get in."

Jim crouched low in the brush, jaw clenched. He turned to Jess, mouthed a single word: Flank. Then to Emile: Stay. His eyes flicked to Castus — the boy still muttering, pale as bone.

Emile wanted to argue. Wanted to move. But he swallowed it. Someone had to guard the dead weight.

Jess slid into position beside Jim, giving the faintest nod. Her fingers already glowed faint violet.

Then it began.

Jim exploded from the brush, knife drawn, every ounce of his frame uncoiled into lethal momentum. It wasn't a charge. It was an execution on legs.

At the same instant Jess struck — a crack of violet energy lanced through the air, tearing into the closest Night Dancer's shoulder. The limb disintegrated in a mist of blood and smoke, the body collapsing mid-scream.

The other spun, too late. Jim slammed into them like a landslide. One hand clamped their face, the other drove the knife. Neck. Spine. Ribs. The strikes came fast, violent, without rhythm — just sheer, ugly efficiency. The Night Dancer gurgled, shrieked, clawed at him, but Jim didn't stop until the throat opened in one clean line.

The body dropped at his boots.

Jim stood over it, chest heaving, knife dripping, eyes already sweeping the dark for the next target. Jess stepped from the trees, her own face taut but steady.

Behind them, the blue dome faltered and vanished. Elmsley collapsed to one knee, wheezing, his face slick with sweat. He blinked at the carnage — the twitching corpse, the blood, the knife still wet in Jim's hand.

"…Huh," Elmsley croaked, voice raw. "Thank you, Jim."

He tried to brush the blood from his robes where Jim had steadied him, but only smeared it deeper into the fabric.

Jim didn't answer. Not yet. He stood close, nostrils flared, eyes still cold as frost, chest rising and falling like a war drum. His body hadn't got the message that the fight was over.

He looked down at the two injured students slumped near Elmsley's feet, and his voice came low, gravelled, but steady.
"You did good, Elmsley," Jim said at last. "Held longer than most would've."

The man's hands trembled as he lowered them from the fading shimmer of his barrier. Sweat dripped off his nose, streaking the ash smeared across his face. His eyes flicked up, sharp with suspicion at first — then softened, just slightly.

Jim tilted his head, catching movement at the treeline. Emile and Castus emerged from the undergrowth, the younger lad practically dragging Castus by the wrist. Castus stumbled like a puppet with broken strings, muttering under his breath, his face pale and wet with tears he didn't even try to hide.

"We've got another for you to get to safety," Jim added.

Castus's eyes lit when he saw Elmsley — wide, desperate, clinging to something familiar. He tore free from Emile's grip and sprinted toward him, throwing his arms around the older man in a crushing embrace. The boy clung to him like a drowning sailor to driftwood, fingers digging into fabric as if afraid Elmsley might vanish if he let go.

Elmsley hesitated — just for a heartbeat — then placed a steadying hand on the back of Castus's head. His jaw worked, but no words came.

"Where am I taking them?" he asked finally.

"The paddock," Jim said without pause. "Drakes there. Big ones. The kind that want to chew through some Umbar bastards. Stay close to 'em and they'll keep you alive."

Elmsley gave a sharp nod and moved quickly, bending to help the wounded students to their feet. His fine robes were torn and soaked, more blood than cloth now, but he kept moving, jaw set with a stubborn resolve.

"I'll try to sweep up any others I come across," he said, already shifting his weight to support one of the students.

Jim gave a single nod, his bloodied hand tapping once on Elmsley's shoulder. "Appreciated."

As the group began to shuffle toward the tree line, Jim called after him, voice rough but carrying:
"Y'know you're still a pompous prick."

Without looking back, Elmsley raised a hand in acknowledgment. "I know," he called, faint amusement threading through exhaustion. "But even pricks can be useful."

Then they disappeared into the woods, swallowed by shadow.

Jim exhaled through his nose, wiped his knife on his ruined trousers, and stood still. The warmth of the fight still clung to him — breath ragged, pulse hammering, hands twitching from the surge of adrenaline. He looked toward Riordan.

The academy loomed less than two hundred yards away, its towers jagged silhouettes against the firelit haze. No more Dancers in the sky. No more arcs of violet or green cracking overhead. Just the great doors, yawning wide like the maw of something ancient, daring them forward.

The wind shifted, bringing the bitter stink of smoke, scorched stone, and blood. The silence was heavier than noise, pressing in around them, the kind of quiet that only came before catastrophe.

Jim turned to Jess and Emile. "You two ready?" His voice was steady, but the edge in it was unmistakable. "No telling what we'll find in there."

Jess didn't hesitate. Her expression hardened, the mask sliding back into place — not armour this time, but resolve. "It's my job," she said. No bravado. No swagger. Just fact.

Jim's eyes softened a fraction, a silent nod of respect. Then he looked at Emile.

The boy's face was pale, jaw trembling but set, eyes lit with something more than fear. Something heavier. Older.

"They… they ruined my life," Emile said. His voice shook, but the words were solid. "I need this."

Jim studied him for a beat longer, then nodded. "Good enough."

The three of them turned back toward Riordan, its shadow spilling long across the grass. Whatever waited inside — answers, nightmares, ghosts — they would face it together.

And this time, Jim wasn't walking in for someone else's war.
This time, he was walking in for his own.

 

[Vadelent]

Okay. not much here yet, but enough to pique my continued interest. Having an Hagrid analogue mc in a hogwarts-like should at least be an interesting perspective piece.

Rather, at first glance this looks like a Snape-type in Hagrid's position story, considering the first thing we saw was the Draco-lite doing a stupid after being warned not to. I'm sure it won't continue to feel like that, but first impressions and all.

Click to shrink...

Feels more like a war battered Filch mixed with the good nature of Hagrid to me. The professor on the other hand felt like Snape mixed with Lockhart. All told though I'm liking the story quite a bit so far.