The next four days blur together in a haze of monotony and irritation. My new "schedule" is nothing but magical theory and history classes - useless drivel that won't help me find Camilla.

  "Come on, big guy. Professor Vella's class has the finest selection of-" Cain wiggles his eyebrows at me from across our dorm room.

  "No." I fold my arms, leaning against the wall.

  "Your loss, mate. That Eliza in the front row? Pure poetry in motion." He clutches his chest dramatically.

  I ignore him and head for the door, but he scrambles after me like an eager puppy. At least he's stopped trying to "supervise" my every move.

  The corridors are quieter during class hours. We find our usual spot in the garden courtyard, hidden behind a gaudy statue of some long-dead mage.

  "Oi, you two degenerates!" Anja's voice carries across the yard. She drops down beside us, pulling out a sandwich roughly the size of her head. "Skipping Ancient Runes again?"

  "Mark refuses to appreciate the finer things in life." Cain sprawls on the grass. "Like Elena from Combat Magic 101."

  "Elena?" Anja snorts. "She wouldn't look twice at your scrawny arse."

  "Wound me, why don't you?"

  Their banter continues while I try to focus on reviewing the Academy's layout. But their laughter keeps pulling me back.

  "Remember when Cain tried to impress that third-year by levitating his lunch tray?" Anja wipes tears from her eyes.

  "How was I supposed to know she was allergic to floating food?"

  Even I can't help the slight twitch of my lips at that one. Their ridiculous stories have become a strange constant in my days here.

  At lunch, we claim an empty table in the far corner of the cafeteria. Other students give us a wide berth - my "incident" with those two idiots made sure of that.

  "I'm just saying," Cain gestures with his fork, "if you attended Practical Enchantment, you'd at least get to see-"

  "If you mention Elena one more time..." Anja threatens him with her massive sandwich.

  "What about Sophia from Theoretical Transmutation?"

  I tune out their discussion of the Academy's "finest specimens" and focus on my food. The kitchens here are one of the few things I can't complain about.

  "Gratis to Mark!" Cain waves his hand in front of my face. "You're missing quality entertainment here."

  "I'm trying to eat."

  "While plotting your grand escape, no doubt." Anja rolls her eyes. "At least the combat classes might be useful for you."

  "If they'd let me fight without magic." I stab at my plate.

  "Oh, speaking of fighting without magic..." Cain leans forward conspiratorially. "Did you hear about the new transfer student in Advanced Defensive Arts? They say she can-"

  "No." I cut him off before he can start another tangent about attractive students.

  Their laughter echoes across the cafeteria. I've somehow ended up with two of the most talkative people in this entire Academy as my constant companions. But as I watch them trade increasingly ridiculous stories, I realise it could be worse. At least they don't treat me like some dangerous tribal curiosity.

  Still, four days of magical classes have taught me nothing useful. My tattoo remains unreliable, and I'm no closer to finding information about Camilla or tracking down Captain Maya. I need to find a way to make this imprisonment work for me.

  The morning sun barely peeks through the Academy's stained glass windows as Cain and I square off in the training yard. He grips the wooden practice sword like it's about to bite him.

  "Ready when you are, big guy!" His confident grin doesn't match his trembling stance.

  I circle him slowly, wooden blade held low. "You said you trained with swords?"

  "Well, technically, I watched a lot of duels. Same thing, right?"

  I close the distance in two steps. One sweep of my practice sword sends him stumbling backwards. His weapon clatters across the cobblestones.

  "Oi, I wasn't ready!" He scrambles after his sword. "Let's go again. I've got it this time."

  Three more attempts end the same way. His form is nonexistent, and his footwork is worse. The wooden blade feels dead in my hands - nothing like the living energy of my snake knife.

  "Perhaps we should-"

  "One more time!" Cain bounces on his toes. "I think I've figured out your pattern."

  "There is no pattern. You're just terrible."

  "Harsh, mate. But fair." He drops the sword and plops onto a nearby bench. "In my defence, you're freakishly good at this."

  I toss my practice weapon aside. "I need to find those scholars."

  "The ones who were drooling over your magic tattoo?" Cain perks up. "Professor Morton's office is in the East Wing, third floor. Can't miss it - she's got this massive brass contraption outside her door."

  I pause. "How do you know that?"

  "I know everything about everyone." He grins. "It's my special talent. That, and my devastating good looks."

  The East Wing corridors are mercifully empty. True to Cain's word, an elaborate brass device stands guard outside one of the offices. It whirs and clicks as I approach.

  "Enter!" A voice calls before I can knock.

  Professor Morton hunches over a desk covered in strange instruments. Her colleague Professor Kaine stands by a bookshelf, nose buried in an ancient tome.

  "Ah, the tribal warrior returns!" Morton's eyes light up. "Come to let us study your fascinating markings?"

  "My knife." I plant my feet. "Something about this place affects it. I need to know why."

  "Straight to business." Kaine closes his book. "Fascinating question. The Academy's wards interact uniquely with different magical signatures."

  "I don't use magic."

  Morton laughs. "My dear boy, those tattoos are pure magic. Ancient runic patterns, if I'm not mistaken. The transfer of beast essence through symbolic binding..."

  "How do I make it work?"

  "That's what we'd love to find out." She gestures to a chair covered in brass sensors. "A few simple tests..."

  I turn to leave. This was a waste of time.

  "Wait!" Kaine steps forward. "The training yard's wards are strongest during class hours. Try early morning or evening. The magical interference should be weaker then."

  I pause at the door. "Why tell me this?"

  "Because," Morton smiles, "you'll come back when you want to know more. And next time, perhaps you'll let us run those tests."

  This was great news. I finally got some information regarding my weapon.

  Hopefully, he's not shy this evening.

  I slouch in my seat at the back of the Mage Combat classroom, watching students practice their stances at the front. Beside me, Cain doodles what appears to be stick figures shooting lightning bolts.

  "The key to magical defence lies in understanding your opponent's elemental affinity," Professor Blackwood drones on. "Now, can anyone demonstrate-"

  "I'll show them." A girl with golden hair rises from her seat. Her uniform bears the emblem of House Holloford.

  That's what I hear Cain mumble loosely.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Excellent, Miss Alice. Perhaps you could partner with..." Blackwood's eyes scan the room.

  "Not him." Alice's lip curls as she points at a trembling first-year. "I refuse to waste my time with someone who can barely conjure a spark."

  The boy shrinks in his chair. Several students shift uncomfortably.

  "I say, that's rather harsh." A tall young man with aristocratic features speaks up. "Though I suppose House Holloford maintains certain... standards."

  "Indeed, Lord Covington." Alice's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Speaking of standards, how fares your mother's estate?"

  Covington's face tightens. Before he can respond, Cain leans over to whisper, "That's Wentworth Covington. Brilliant mind, but his family's broke as a joke."

  I grunt, uninterested in noble politics. But Covington's gaze finds me, studying my exposed forearms with unsettling intensity.

  The class drags on with demonstrations of magical shields and counter-spells. Complete waste of time.

  Later, in Military Tactics, I find myself trapped between the same characters. Covington takes the seat next to mine, much to my annoyance.

  "Those markings, let me see them clearer", he whispers while Professor Hammond explains magical battlefield formations. "The symbolism suggests a fascinating integration of runic principles with beast essence. Have you considered-"

  "No."

  "But the theoretical applications-"

  "Not interested."

  Cain snickers from my other side. "Told you he's not the chatty type."

  "Unlike some people." Alice turns around in her seat. "Who never seem to shut up."

  "Aw, you noticed me!" Cain clutches his chest. "I'm touched, truly."

  "Notice you?" She scoffs. "It's impossible not to, given how desperately you try to attract attention."

  "Miss Holloford," Hammond's voice cuts through. "Perhaps you'd like to explain the strategic advantage of positioning elementalists on elevated ground?"

  Alice straightens, launching into a perfect recitation. I tune out her answer, focusing instead on the setting sun outside. Evening approaches. Soon, I can test what those professors told me about the training yard.

  "Fascinating stuff, isn't it?" Covington leans closer. "Though I wonder how these tactics might adapt to non-magical combat. Your tribal markings, for instance-"

  "They're not for study."

  "Everything is worth studying." His eyes gleam. "Knowledge is power, after all. And power..." He glances at Alice, still holding court at the front of the class. "Well, power is everything in this place."

  I stand abruptly as Hammond dismisses us. Cain scrambles to follow, but Covington's voice stops me at the door.

  "When you're ready to understand what those marks really mean, come find me. I have some theories that might interest you."

  I leave without responding. The sooner the evening comes, the sooner I can focus on what really matters - getting my knife to work again.

  I settle onto the grassy mound, crossing my legs and steadying my breathing. The evening air carries a hint of autumn chill, but I barely notice it. My focus narrows to the snake tattoo coiling around my forearm.

  "So... we're just sitting here?" Cain sprawls in the grass beside me, tossing a small rubber ball into the air repeatedly. "Watching you... meditate?"

  I don't respond. The professors said the wards would be weaker now. I close my eyes, reaching for that familiar connection - the living energy that usually flows between the mark and my will.

  "You could at least tell me what we're waiting for." The ball makes a soft thump each time it hits his palm. "Is this some tribal thing? Secret warrior meditation? Ooh, are you communing with ancient spirits?"

  "Shut up."

  "Right, right. Silence is golden and all that."

  Minutes stretch into an hour. The sun sinks lower, painting the Academy's spires in deep orange. Cain has moved on to making shadow puppets against the grass.

  "Look, it's a dragon! No wait, maybe more of a deformed rabbit..."

  Something shifts beneath my skin. A familiar tingle traces the snake's outline. My eyes snap open as warmth spreads through the marking.

  "Finally," I breathe.

  The tattoo ripples, black lines swimming across my arm. Energy pulses through the connection - weaker than normal, but present. Real.

  "Whoa." Cain sits up straight. "Your arm is... moving?"

  I reach for the power, willing the snake to manifest. The mark responds sluggishly, but I feel the weapon taking shape.

  Movement catches my eye. We're not alone anymore. A flash of golden hair behind a nearby column - Alice Holloford, watching with calculated interest. Wentworth Covington stands openly at the edge of the yard, a brass instrument held to his eye.

  Professor Morton and Kaine hover near the entrance, whispering excitedly and taking notes. Even Anja leans against a wall, pretending to tinker with some mechanical device while stealing glances my way.

  "Quite the audience you've drawn." Cain waves cheerfully at our observers. "Shall I sell tickets?"

  I ignore them all, focusing on the weapon, trying to form. The knife emerges slowly, edges blurred and unsteady. Not perfect, but it's a start.

  "That... is properly incredible." Cain leans forward, eyes wide. "Can you do it again? Maybe with some dramatic flair this time?"

  The knife dissolves back into the tattoo. I flex my arm, feeling the renewed connection. It's not at full strength, but it's something I can work with.

  I rise to my feet, noting how our audience tenses. Let them watch. Let them wonder. As long as I can use my weapon again, their curiosity means nothing to me.

  I sit cross-legged on my bed, eyes closed, focusing on the snake tattoo. The connection I felt in the training yard yesterday lingers, but weakly—like trying to hold smoke in my hands. I reach for it again, willing the serpent to stir beneath my skin.

  Nothing.

  "And then I said to him, 'That's not a dragon, that's my mother-in-law!'" Cain howls with laughter at his own joke, sprawled across his bed with a notebook full of scribbles. "Get it? Because she breathes fire? No? Tough crowd. I guess I'm the target audience of my jokes."

  I ignore him, tracing the outline of the snake with my finger. The tattoo feels warm to the touch, but stubbornly refuses to respond.

  "What about this one—a mercenary walks into a tavern with a parrot on his shoulder. Bartender says, 'Where'd you get that?' Parrot says, 'The wilderness, they're everywhere!'"

  "That doesn't make sense," I mutter, not looking up.

  "Ah! He speaks!" Cain points triumphantly. "And criticizes my material! That's progress, my stoic friend. Next, you'll be laughing, then crying, then sharing your deepest, darkest secrets."

  "Unlikely."

  I close my eyes again, focusing on the memory of power flowing through the mark. The sensation of the knife forming in my hand was solid and deadly. If I can just find that connection again...

  "What about physical comedy?" Cain leaps to his feet, attempting to juggle three apples that he produced from somewhere. "Everyone loves a good—" Two apples collide mid-air and bounce off his forehead. "—pratfall."

  A knock at the door interrupts his performance.

  "Enter at your own risk!" Cain calls out, rubbing his forehead. "Genius comedian at work!"

  Anja pushes the door open, arms loaded with books. "Genius? Where?" She glances around the room. "All I see is an idiot with apple juice in his hair."

  "It's called commitment to the craft." Cain bows with a flourish.

  Anja drops her stack of books on the floor and plops down beside them. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, funny man."

  I return to my meditation, trying to block them out. The tattoo pulses faintly, responding to my frustration.

  "What are those?" Cain peers at Anja's books. "'Advanced Combustion Engine Modifications'? 'High-Speed Chassis Dynamics'? Light bedtime reading?"

  "Research." Anja flips open the top book, revealing diagrams covered in her scrawled notes. "There's a race track on the eastern edge of the city. Students go there on weekends."

  "And you want to... watch?"

  She snorts. "I want to destroy them all." Her eyes gleam with excitement. "The rich kids here think they know speed. They've never seen what a properly modified engine can do."

  "You're insane." Cain sounds impressed.

  "I'm bored." Anja shrugs. "And I need test subjects for my new acceleration formula."

  "Test subjects?" Cain's voice rises an octave.

  "Passengers." She grins wickedly. "You two are coming with me this weekend."

  "Pass," I mutter, still focused on my tattoo.

  "What's he doing?" Anja asks Cain, as if I'm not here.

  "Tribal magic thing. Very mysterious. Been at it for hours."

  "It's not magic," I snap, opening my eyes. "It's connection."

  They both stare at me, surprised by my outburst.

  "Connection to what?" Anja asks, genuinely curious.

  I don't answer. How could I explain something I barely understand myself? The bond between the beast's essence and my own will. The transfer of power through death and rebirth.

  "You're coming this weekend," Anja declares, turning back to her books. "Both of you. You need to get out of this room before you start talking to the walls."

  "Too late." Cain points at me. "He already has conversations with his arm."

  Their banter continues as I tune them out again. The snake tattoo seems to respond to my irritation, pulsing more strongly now. I latch onto that feeling, feeding it with memories of the knife's weight in my hand. The perfect balance. The deadly edge.

  Something shifts. The connection snaps into place like a lock clicking. Power surges through the mark, stronger than in the training yard. The snake writhes beneath my skin, no longer just an image but a living thing.

  I extend my arm, palm up, and will the weapon to form.

  The knife materializes in a swirl of dark energy, more substantial than before. Longer. The blade gleams with an obsidian sheen I don't remember, its edge wickedly sharp. The handle fits my grip perfectly, as if moulded for my hand alone.

  "Holy shit," Cain whispers.

  Anja's books lie forgotten as they both stare at the weapon.

  "That's... different," she says carefully.

  I turn the knife, examining it. The familiar weight, but somehow more. As if the weapon has evolved during its dormancy. Darker. Deadlier.

  Mine.

  I study the blade's new form, rotating it slowly to catch the evening light filtering through our window. The obsidian surface seems to drink in the shadows, making the edge appear even sharper.

  "So..." Cain leans forward on his bed. "Does this mean you can help me chop vegetables for dinner? Because the cafeteria knives are rubbish, and I've got this brilliant recipe for-"

  "It's not a kitchen utensil." I keep my voice flat, but something in my chest tightens at his casual dismissal of the weapon's significance.

  "Could be, though." Anja picks up one of her books, using it as a pretend cutting board. "Imagine the looks on people's faces when you pull out a magical snake knife to slice tomatoes."

  "'Oh, this old thing?'" Cain affects a posh accent. "'Just my ancient tribal vegetable chopper. Family heirloom, don't you know?'"

  They dissolve into laughter, trading increasingly ridiculous scenarios about using my weapon for mundane tasks. I let the knife dissolve back into the tattoo, lying back on my bed and turning away from them.

  "Aw, come on." Cain's bed creaks as he flops onto it. "We're just having a laugh."

  "Some things aren't funny." I close my eyes, feeling the snake's essence settle beneath my skin.

  "Everything's funny if you look at it right," he insists, but I hear Anja gathering her books.

  "Let him rest," she says. "We've got that history exam tomorrow anyway."

  Their voices fade as sleep pulls me under, the snake tattoo pulsing gently like a second heartbeat.

  A test on Saturday.