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."