Lowell's legs gave out beneath him.

  The collapse came not as a sudden fall, but as a slow, inevitable surrender. His knees buckled first, the muscles that had carried him through the brutal assault finally refusing to bear his weight any longer. He sank to the courtyard stones, one knee finding rest upon the cold cobblestones while the other remained bent beneath him in a valiant attempt to keep him upright. Even that support would fail him soon.

  The sword, still clutched in a white-knuckled grip, shook violently as his arms betrayed the same weakness that had claimed his legs. The blade's tip scraped against the cracked courtyard stones as he struggled to steady himself, the metallic sound echoing hollowly in the sudden quiet. With a desperate effort, he drove the weapon into the ground, using it as an anchor to keep himself from toppling completely forward. The steel bit deep into loose dirt between the upturned pavers, sending tiny sparks skittering across the cobblestones as it scraped against the stone.

  The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue, mixing with the acrid remnants of the creature's profane presence that still clung to the air. His heart hammered in his throat, each beat threatening to split his skull.

  The world around him blurred at the edges, colors bleeding together into a hazy, indistinct mass. The once-pristine Orus Guild Academy quad now lay in ruin around him, transformed into a battlefield scarred by the nightmare's wrath. Broken stone, splintered wood, and shattered glass littered the cobblestones. The destruction stretched in every direction, a testament to how quickly violence could tear through order and safety.

  "Brandt!" Bart's shout pierced through the haze. Lowell barely registered the hurried footsteps as Bart stumbled over to him, limping, one hand cradling his own bruised side while the other reached out to steady Lowell. The touch felt distant, like it belonged to someone else, in another world.

  Lowell's vision swam, reality flickering between the present destruction and fragments of the battle that still burned in his mind. The creature's hellish red eyes seemed to stare at him from every shadow, their malevolent glow seared into his consciousness like brands on flesh. He could still feel the unnatural ripple of its shadowy form, the way it had moved with impossible grace that defied everything he knew about the natural world.

  But the creature was gone. The bone-deep terror that had wrapped itself around his heart during the fight now lingered like a phantom limb, refusing to let go even though the nightmare had dissolved into nothingness.

  He could still feel the phantom heat of its breath against his skin, could still hear the echo of its snarls reverberating in his skull like church bells tolling for the dead. The memory was too fresh, too vivid. It brought back every memory from his childhood. He was powerless then, but this time had been different. This time he had stood his ground. This time he had fought back.

  Jehta had arrived just in time, her arrows biting into the monster's flesh with surgical precision, giving Lowell the sliver of opportunity he needed to strike the killing blow. But even though he had survived, even though Helena and Bart were safe, the victory still tasted bitter. He had let fear control him during the battle, had nearly cost them everything with his hesitation and clumsy strikes. The nightmare should have been dealt with minutes earlier. A real guilder wouldn't have needed Jehta's help. A real guilder wouldn't have fought with a broken broom like some desperate child playing at heroics.

  Schwartz had been right to send him away. He wasn't any good to anyone.

  He had been too slow, too weak, too afraid. The creature had toyed with him, testing his limits, and he had almost failed completely. If Bart hadn't found that sword, if Jehta hadn't arrived when she did, if Helena had been just a few steps closer to its claws... Lowell's mind spiraled through every near-miss, every moment where his inadequacy could have cost someone their life.

  The destruction around him echoed his own shattered confidence. The common area at the interior of the campus bore the aftermath of their struggle like an open wound, and Lowell couldn't help but see himself reflected in the devastation. The statue of Irving Orus, once standing proudly at the center as a symbol of the academy's proud heritage, was now shattered beyond recognition. Its fragments lay scattered like forgotten relics from a lost civilization, each piece a reminder of how quickly order could crumble into chaos. Just as his own composure did when faced with that overwhelming aura of terror.

  The ground itself was stained with dark ichor and the last remnants of the nightmare's essence, which mingled with the debris of broken benches and torn banners before fading entirely into the evening air. The stench of burnt wood and something fouler clung to everything—a lingering corruption that seeped into Lowell's very bones, a physical manifestation of the fear that still gripped his heart.

  Gradually, other sounds began to penetrate the haze. Lowell fought to focus through the fog of exhaustion, his consciousness slipping like water through his fingers as adrenaline abandoned him. Footsteps, rapid and urgent, echoed across the courtyard stones, growing louder and more defined with each passing moment.

  Shapes emerged from the edges of Lowell's blurred vision. He fought to make sense of them. Instructors rushed into the courtyard, weapons drawn, their faces etched with urgency and fear. He could barely make out Baerghard Grimm's imposing figure, his heavy weapon gleaming under the waning sunlight, and Dr. Calyra Vex, the academy's medic, already barking orders to her assistants.

  Above, Jehta leapt down from the roof that covered the walkway, landing with the effortless ease of a seasoned hunter. She didn't speak. Her sharp, calculating gaze swept over the courtyard, assessing the damage, ensuring the threat was truly gone.

  And then even that valiant attempt to remain upright and aware finally failed him. His body surrendered completely to exhaustion as he fell forward, caught by Bart who struggled to keep Lowell from falling over completely.

  The sounds around him felt muffled and distant, like they were coming from underwater. The instructors' urgent shouts, Bart's anxious exclamations, the distant cries of other students being ushered to safety—all of it reached him through a heavy veil as his consciousness continued to slip away. His thoughts drifting unbidden back to the battle. The urge to run away.

  But he had fought. With nothing but a broom and sheer will, he had faced the nightmare and won.

  The memory of its final moments played again in his mind: the creature's body unraveling into motes of shadow, disintegrating into the fading sunlight under the combined assault of Lowell's blade, Bart's determination, and Jehta's precise arrows.

  The creature was gone. Really gone. Lowell could still feel echoes of its presence, a pall of corruption that lingered in the air, but the nightmare itself had dissolved into nothingness, its shadowy form scattered like smoke on the wind. It had been a group victory, not his alone. Still, his desperate gambit had worked better than he'd dared hope, and somehow his blade had found the creature's core when it mattered most.

  Dr. Vex knelt beside him, her hands reaching out to take Lowell's weight from Bart's trembling arms. The transfer was gentle but necessary, Bart's exhausted muscles finally giving way as the medic's steady hands took over.

  "Were you the only two injured?" Lowell had to force his vision to focus as Calyra's voice cut through the muffled sounds around him, though he soon realized that she was addressing Bart.

  Bart shook his head, wincing as he gestured weakly toward where he had dragged Helena. "There's another student over there. Helena Oxford."

  Another flurry of activity. Lowell smirked, though he wasn't sure if his muscles moved to actually smile or if he just imagined it. Just like Helena to steal all of the attention away.

  Lowell felt himself falling. His body swayed, threatening to collapse completely, while his consciousness slipped away like water through his fingers in a sudden and rapid descent toward blackness. He was steadied before he fell completely. By Bart? By Dr. Vex? The hands that caught him were strong. Rough. Seasoned. They pulled him back from the edge of unconsciousness, anchoring him a while longer to the present moment.

  Lowell felt himself being lowered carefully to the ground, while Calyra Vex assessed his condition. Her touch both clinical and reassuring.

  Dr. Vex's voice, though calm, felt distant, like it belonged to another reality. "He's exhausted... some minor wounds, but he'll live. Get him to the infirmary." Her words barely registered as two third-year students carefully lifted Lowell, their faces indistinguishable from the lights in his blurred vision.

  As they moved him, Lowell's head lolled to the side, and before succumbing to unconsciousness his gaze caught the distant form of Helena being attended to and placed on a stretcher of her own. She was already unconscious, her face pale, but she was alive. Relief washed over him as he saw Helena was alive. They had saved her.

  He had saved her.

  The last thing Lowell saw before darkness claimed his mental faculties was the fractured sky above Orus Guild Academy, and the twilight bleeding into night.

  Baerghard watched as the medical students carried Lowell off, his weathered face creased with concern. The veteran instructor had seen his share of battles, but watching students face down a nightmare was something else entirely. He turned to Bart, the question coming out gruff but not unkind. "And in the arena?"

  Bart hesitated before answering, the memory haunting him still and making him ill. "I... I don't think anyone could have survived that. I only saw one body, but there was so much blood..."

  Baerghard's expression darkened, and he exchanged a knowing, grim look with Dr. Vex. The kind of look that spoke of too many similar conversations over too many years.

  Dr. Vex rose from inspecting Bart, her tone brisk and commanding. "We'll see to Lady Oxford first, and the instructors will handle the arena." Her sharp eyes then flicked to Bart, assessing him with the practiced efficiency of someone who had treated everything from training accidents to battlefield wounds. "You're heading to the infirmary too. That's more than just a bruise. Your injuries need attention and you need a thorough check-up." She gave a quick nod to her assistant, who moved in to guide Bart toward medical care.

  As Dr. Vex left to check on Helena, Baerghard took stock of the courtyard, his military-trained eyes cataloging the destruction with grim efficiency. He noticed the shattered broom lying among the debris, disbelief and grudging respect settling into a smile. "Facing off against a nightmare... alone... with only a broom?" He shook his head, the gesture carrying decades of battlefield experience. "Either the bravest thing I've ever heard of, or the most foolish."

  Jehta stepped beside him, her movements silent and precise as always. Her sharp eyes scanned the site of the battle with the uncanny precision of a hunter who had spent years tracking dangerous prey. She paused, crouching to examine the ground where the creature had fallen. She noted the path back to the arena, and the irregular patterns in its movements and the weakness in its strikes.

  Jehta's words carried the burden of someone who understood exactly how close they'd come to disaster. "If it hadn't already been severely injured, we'd be looking at more than just a wrecked courtyard." She turned to face Baerghard directly, voice grim. "It could have been a massacre."

  Baerghard rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I don't know whether to call them fools or heroes."

  Jehta's reply came without hesitation, her gaze still fixed on the destruction. "Both. Fools for thinking they could handle it alone. Heroes for actually doing it." She finally looked up at Baerghard, and there was something almost like pride in her eyes. "That Brandt boy... he's got something special. The way he moved, the way he fought. That wasn't just desperation. That was skill."

  Baerghard nodded slowly, considering her words. "Aye, there's something there. But skill without sense gets you killed faster than incompetence." He gestured toward the shattered statue of Irving Orus. "Look at this mess. One wrong move, one moment of hesitation, and we'd be burying three students instead of patching them up."

  Jehta rose to her feet. "They're alive, Baerghard. That's what matters. And they saved each other. That's more than most seasoned guilders manage when facing nightmares."

  The weapons instructor was quiet, then let out a long breath. "You're right. Still, this academy's supposed to be safe. How the hell did a nightmare get past the pylons?"

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "That," Jehta said grimly, "is a question that needs answering. And soon."

  #

  Lowell was already sitting up, wincing as he eased his uniform jacket back over his bandaged shoulder and wrapped torso. The antiseptic sting clung to the air, mingling with the subtle scent of cloves that lingered from the healing magic. The academy infirmary was a modest space: clean white walls, polished wooden floors, and a half-dozen narrow beds with crisp linen sheets arranged in neat rows. Tall windows let in the fading afternoon light, casting long shadows across the room. The silence felt like a waiting breath, unnatural and expectant, as if the very walls were holding their breath.

  Bart, lying on the next bed over, let out an exaggerated sigh. "Look, all I'm saying is, no matter how good the magic is, my leg still hurts," he grumbled, shifting his splinted limb with obvious discomfort. "And you took a way worse beating than I did. Can you, I don't know, just rest like a normal person?"

  Lowell shot him a look, his expression somewhere between amusement and mild irritation.

  Bart raised his hands in surrender, though the gesture was more theatrical than sincere. "Okay, okay, be reckless, see if I care."

  Despite his injuries, ones that had looked far worse not long before, Lowell had that restless energy, the kind that meant he wouldn't stay in one place for long. Healing magic had done its work, but recovery was never instant. The infirmary had rules. Of course, Lowell ignored them.

  The door burst open with theatrical force, Baerghard Grimm's massive frame filling the doorway like a force of nature. His booming voice preceded him into the room, carrying the kind of dramatic flair that belonged more to a stage performance than a simple visit. "You're a mad fool!" he declared, though his laughter suggested anything but disapproval. "A broom, Brandt? Really?"

  Lowell's response was measured, almost cautious. "Wasn't exactly my first choice," He managed a small, crooked grin, but it was the kind that came from going through the motions rather than genuine amusement.

  Baerghard's grin widened, and something shifted in his demeanor. "Not bad, Brandt. And you too, Allston!" His tone carried a warmth that Bart hadn't expected. "I've seen fully trained guilders panic when facing a nightmare, but you didn't break. You actually ran at the damn thing." He shook his head, amusement and genuine admiration present in the words. "That's either the gutsiest or the dumbest thing I've seen in a while."

  Lowell exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if weighing the statement. "Probably both," he admitted, and there was the faintest hint of something more genuine in his response.

  Baerghard chuckled, the sound rich and hearty. "Probably." He tossed the shattered remains of the broom onto one of the tables with a flourish, his grin turning downright wolfish. "But a broom? That's a new one."

  Bart, still expecting the usual critical feedback, found himself relaxing slightly. "And the best part? He actually landed a few hits with it before he broke it!" The words came out more easily than he'd intended.

  Baerghard's grin widened further. "Hell. That makes you the first person I've met who can claim to have beaten back a nightmare with cleaning equipment. I almost feel bad for the thing."

  Jehta Seif followed behind Baerghard, her movements precise and controlled. Though she was smaller in stature than the towering weapons instructor, she carried an authority that few dared to challenge. Her sharp gaze swept across the room like an arrow loosed from her bow, taking in every detail with practiced efficiency.

  She gave Baerghard a look that could have stopped a charging bull in its tracks. The weapons instructor's booming laughter cut off mid-chuckle, and he had the decency to look slightly abashed as Jehta turned her attention to the students.

  Jehta's tone was measured and professional as she flicked her gaze between Lowell and Bart. "You both fought well." Then her attention settled on Bart, who sat on the neighboring bed with his leg splinted.

  "You," she pointed with the precision of someone used to giving orders, "need more martial training, Master Allston. Your form was undisciplined. You left yourself open far too often."

  Bart's face burned red, the familiar sting of criticism hitting him like a physical blow. "I was improvising!" his protest defensive, only for Baerghard's hearty laugh to escape despite his best efforts to contain it.

  "Too hard on the boy, Jehta!" Baerghard said protectively, surprising both students. "Reckless or not, he avoided serious injury. That's progress!"

  Jehta rolled her eyes but didn't press further, and Lowell noticed her shoulders relax slightly, some of the tension diffused by Baerghard's persistent jovial attitude. Instead, she turned back to Lowell, who was now already halfway across the room headed for the door.

  "And just where do you think you're going?" Jehta's words cut through the air like a whip crack as her attention shifted to Lowell, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal the exasperation beneath. "Dr. Vex wanted to keep you under observation, not give you permission to wander the academy like some restless ghost."

  "He thinks he can just get up and leave," Bart muttered indignantly, crossing his arms. "He can't do that, right?"

  Before either instructor could respond, Dr. Vex's voice floated into the room, calm, measured. "Technically, he can. But I'd rather he didn't."

  Calyra Vex entered the infirmary with the fluid precision of someone who moved through medical spaces as naturally as breathing. Her elw heritage was evident in the elegant sweep of her pointed ears, which extended outward from her head in a distinctive arc. Her hair was a striking contrast of textures: shoulder-length waves on one side, the other side shaved close to her scalp in a bold asymmetrical style that spoke of both practicality and confidence. She wore a crisp white lab coat over a fitted dark ensemble, every detail of her appearance carefully curated and professional.

  Her movements were smooth and economical, each gesture purposeful as she glided across the polished floor. Despite her clinical demeanor, there was an undeniable presence about her, the kind of natural beauty that came from confidence and competence rather than mere physical features. Her piercing gaze, sharp and intelligent, quickly assessed both students with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen every manner of injury and ailment.

  "If you're that eager to leave, Lowell, I won't stop you." She folded her arms, waiting. "At least allow me to finish my assessment and speak with the instructors."

  Lowell let out a slow breath, clearly reluctant but relenting. He settled back onto the bed, though his shoulders remained tense with restless energy. "How's Helena?" His tone was softer now, the usual sharp edges dulled by exhaustion and concern.

  Dr. Vex's smiled softly. "Her family's private medics have taken over. We'll know more by morning, but by all accounts it looks like no serious harm was done. Just shock." She swept her gaze to include Bart, her tone carrying genuine appreciation. "She'll recover, thanks to your quick actions. Both of you."

  Lowell nodded, and for the first time since the fight, some of the tension eased from his shoulders. "Good."

  Jehta's expression grew more serious, her voice carrying the weight of someone delivering difficult news. "Dr. Vex, we need to discuss the situation in the arena."

  Dr. Vex nodded, understanding immediately. She gestured toward the far corner of the infirmary, away from the students' beds. "Of course."

  The three instructors moved to the corner, speaking in lowered voices that were clearly meant to be private. Bart and Lowell weren't trying to eavesdrop, but the acoustics of the small infirmary carried fragments of their conversation across the room. Most of it was indistinct, but one name cut through the background sounds and carried above their lowered voices. A name Bart heard with crystal clarity.

  Professor Mille.

  "So it was Professor Mille..." He didn't know how loudly he said it. He didn't even mean to say it out loud.

  Bart had known, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he'd hoped otherwise. In the rush of everything that had happened, he'd even convinced himself that he'd been mistaken, that his vision was playing tricks on him in the dim light of the arena. Maybe it had just been a training dummy, or some other debris from the nightmare's rampage.

  But hearing the name spoken aloud was different. His breath caught, his chest tightening like a vice. His body felt suddenly distant, like he wasn't really inside his own skin anymore. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision as his mind forced him back to the nightmare, to the arena, to the body.

  He could still see the professor's body, mangled beyond recognition. He had forced himself to not look too closely then, to not think about who it had been. Even though there was no doubt. But now the name was right there, spoken aloud, undeniable.

  His vision swam, hands gripping the sheets beneath him like they were the only thing anchoring him to reality. No, no, no—don't think about it. Don't feel it. He forced a laugh, strangled and empty, trying to shove the thoughts back into the dark recesses of his mind.

  He couldn't breathe.

  The instructors' conversation had stopped. Dr. Vex's sharp eyes had caught the change in Bart's breathing, the way his knuckles had gone white against the sheets. Her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal something deeper, a recognition that went beyond mere medical assessment. Jehta and Baerghard had turned as well, their faces reflecting concern as they took in Bart's sudden distress.

  Bart exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as if to dislodge the thought. "Well. That sucks," he managed, voice too light, too flippant. "Guess we're going to have more to clean now. Haha."

  The laugh was too sharp. Too forced.

  But the panic was there still. No matter what he tried to do, or say, it wasn't going away.

  Dr. Vex was already at his side. A steady hand, warm and grounding, rested over his, pressing lightly.

  Dr. Vex's voice was low and calm. "Bart. Breathe."

  "I can't." His words came out scared, vulnerable.

  "Breathe." Calyra calmly instructed him again.

  He swallowed hard, his throat raw. "I'm fine."

  "You're not." Her fingers curled slightly, an anchor. "Look at me."

  His chest hitched. He didn't want to look because if he did, the mask would crack. But he did anyway.

  She looked at him, understanding. Not pity, just... knowing.

  Dr. Vex's tone was soft yet resolute. "You're safe now. I need you to breathe for me."

  Bart's hands trembled. For a fleeting moment, a voice inside jeered, Stupid. Weak. You're fine, so why are you... but before the thought could spiral further, Dr. Vex's steady cadence became an anchor, pulling him back to reality.

  He focused on her words: in... out... in... out. Slowly, the crushing tightness in his chest began to ease, each breath a tiny victory over the chaos that had nearly consumed him.

  Dr. Vex watched with clinical satisfaction, her gaze both caring and unwavering. "Good," she murmured, releasing her reassuring touch while still staying near. "You don't have to push it all away."

  Bart exhaled shakily, running a hand through his tousled hair as if trying to smooth out the jagged edges of his memory. "Yeah, well," he muttered with a wry, self-deprecating smile, "pushing things away is kind of my specialty." His attempt at humor barely masked the lingering dread beneath.

  The unease from Bart's panic attack hadn't completely dissipated, still hanging in the air like the lingering scent of smoke after a fire. Baerghard, ever perceptive, let out a slow breath and cracked his neck, the sound breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the room.

  "Well," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "That could've gone worse."

  Bart blinked, looking up from where he sat, arms draped over his knees. "Worse?" he echoed, incredulous. "Did we not just see the same thing? Because unless I hallucinated the whole 'horrifying shadow beast trying to rip our faces off', I'm not sure how much worse it could've gone."

  Baerghard's smirk deepened, imbued with a knowing glint that hinted at hard-won experience. "Oh, trust me, kid. It can always get worse."

  Bart groaned, burying his face in his hands before looking up. "Yeah, great. Thanks for that reassuring thought." His voice was low, a mixture of sarcasm and vulnerability that underscored the enormity of what they had endured.

  Leaning back against a worn table in the infirmary, Baerghard crossed his arms and said, "Listen, you all made it out alive. That's more than most get when they run into something like that." His tone softened as he met Bart's eyes, conveying a rare mix of sternness and warmth.

  Jehta stepped forward, her voice gentle and encouraging. "Bart, your reaction—your ability to still crack a joke amidst all this—shows your humanity. Don't ever lose that."

  Bart allowed himself a moment of respite as he rolled his shoulders and sighed. "I don't even know how we made it through that madness," he admitted, glancing over at Lowell with a tentative concern. "You... you okay?"

  The fear Lowell had felt earlier unmistakable in his features. "I was frozen in fear the first time I saw one," he replied, his words barely above a whisper as if reluctant to relive the memory. He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. "Almost let it happen again today. If Bart hadn't found that sword, if Jehta hadn't arrived when she did..."

  Baerghard nodded growing serious but supportive. "That's what I like to hear. Don't let this shake you. Learn from it. It's not the last nightmare you'll see in this life."

  Lowell met the weapon instructor's eyes with quiet determination. "I know," he said simply, the truth in his words resonating like a promise made to himself.

  "That's what really scares me," he muttered bitterly.

  Baerghard clapped Bart on the shoulder with a rough but sincere gesture. "Welcome to the life of a guilder, kid. One day, you'll hold a real weapon, not just a training stick, and I promise you, you won't miss it as much as you think."

  A shaky laugh bubbled from Bart, a sound that was part relief, part lingering disbelief. Despite the heaviness that still hung about the room, camaraderie had begun to thaw the ice of fear.

  The burden of what they'd survived together had lessened into something bearable, its sharp edges dulled by shared experience and the absurdity of survival. Lowell and Bart had faced death side by side, and that changed everything. The instructors, too, regarded them differently now, not just as students, but as young people who had proven themselves under fire.

  Dr. Vex gave her patients one final check. She took stock of their physical injuries, the ones that would heal in short order with the aid of magic, as well as the emotional ones that they would carry longer. But Calyra had seen enough trauma in her years to recognize something rare in both Bart and Lowell: a quiet determination that had emerged from the crucible of their shared experience. That kind of strength, forged in fire, often proved the difference between survival and surrender when the next crisis came. "Alright, heroes," she announced, gentle and commanding, "you're free to go."

  As they left the infirmary, Bart hobbled alongside Lowell on his crutches. In a low, joking tone, Bart quipped with a weak but genuine smirk, "You know, for a guy who started all this with nothing but a broom, you're not half bad."

  Lowell's reaction was earnest. He didn't have the energy to forestall the chuckle that escaped softly. He shook his head, in as much disbelief at the whole situation as to himself for finding comfort in the shared experience. "And for a guy who nearly passed out just now, you're holding it together better than most."