Sunrise crept over Wildeguard Academy like a scouting goblin, spilling pale sunlight across dark stone. Mist clung low to the courtyard, curling around boots as teams gathered. Armor buckles clicked. Elixir flasks clinked softly. Leather straps tightened. Quiet anticipation hung in the air.

  Weylan adjusted the strap on his pack and scanned his group.

  Faya checked her open backpack, where the verdant hare rested. The top flap had been folded back so it could breathe and observe the world. Inside, carefully arranged blankets formed a snug little nest.

  Ulmenglanz stood slightly apart, one palm resting against the earth as if listening to the soil breathe.

  Darken O’Mighty paced in a tight circle, hands fluttering like agitated ravens.

  “We have a problem,” Darken declared to no one and everyone at once. “A glaring, screaming problem. We have healing. We have buffs. We have utility. We have crowd control. What we do not have,” he stabbed a finger into the air between them, “is a tank. No wall. No glorious slab of meat to absorb hits while the rest of us do clever things.”

  Faya offered him a reassuring smile. “We are more of a subtle team.”

  “Subtle dies when something the size of a barn decides to sit on you,” Darken replied. “Subtle is a lifestyle choice. Armor is a necessity.”

  Ulmenglanz tilted her head, leaves in her hair catching the light. “The forest does not need a shield. Trees bend if the storm grows too rough.”

  “Yes, yes, very poetic,” Darken said, waving her off. “Try bending when a troll hugs you. I would simply prefer one of us to resemble a warrior capable of standing their ground. The only one not yet here is Stitch, and she’s a librarian’s assistant.”

  Weylan opened his mouth to mediate when footsteps echoed from around the corner.

  Stitch emerged from between two buildings.

  She wore leather clothes fitted for movement, but layered and reinforced. Over it hung a thick butcher’s apron. It looked less like kitchen wear and more like a cuirass that planned to survive years of hard use. In her hands were two enormous meat cleavers, their edges polished to a gleam. She held them low and wide, shoulders squared. Not a cook awaiting orders, but a fighter ready for action.

  Stitch stopped a few paces away and planted her feet.

  “I heard,” she said calmly, “that you were missing something solid.”

  Silence rippled outward.

  Darken stared. Slowly, reverently, he clasped his hands together. “By all forbidden appendices of the arcane,” he whispered. “You are one terrifying library assistant.”

  Stitch lifted one cleaver an inch, then the other, testing their balance. “I can stand in front. I am a flesh golem. I can take a beating if necessary.”

  Ulmenglanz smiled, soft and approving. “Let us ensure that you do not have to. Remember that the life force used to heal you is finite.”

  Weylan felt a grin tug at his mouth as the sun finally cleared the walls, bathing their unlikely formation in gold.

  “Looks like,” he said, shouldering his pack, “we are ready.”

  Stitch nodded once and sheathed her cleavers at her belt. Weylan noticed her backpack was significantly larger than everyone else’s. The flesh golem was stronger than the healers and casters who made up most of their group. Ulmenglanz was likely a close second.

  He regretted that it was impossible to bring pack animals. Every teacher he’d asked had strongly advised against it. The goblin word for mules and other pack animals could be translated as "snack."

  A horn sounded.

  The lightning moat, the ring of metal poles charged with crackling lightning energy around the academy, dimmed. Then it went dark.

  The hunt had begun.

  Two revenant teams immediately treated it like a race and sprinted into the forest.

  Weylan did a double take when he saw Aldrich, Alina, and Erik marching without backpacks, followed by half a dozen heavily laden book-goblins.

  He turned to Stitch. “Could we not have gotten us some carriers as well?”

  She smiled faintly. “Which one of us would you have exchanged for a book-goblin torch-bearer?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps Darken?”

  The master of dark arts turned sharply. “Hey! I heard that.”

  The Arcane Knights departed in tight formation, singing a catchy marching tune.

  The monks scoffed and chose a slightly different direction, likely to avoid misunderstandings born of their well-known rivalry.

  Darken watched them go and chuckled.

  Weylan followed his gaze, but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “What is so funny about the monks? They seem quite capable.”

  “Oh, it is nothing. You would not understand.” Darken continued grinning.

  “Try me.” Weylan insisted.

  Darken shrugged. “Well, did you notice the acolytes are wearing red robes?”

  “Yes… that’s what acolytes wear to distinguish themselves from the white robes of fully trained monks. Or so I’ve been told.”

  Darken’s grin widened. He called to the were-falcon preparing to march. “Hey. Do you see it?”

  The revenant glanced up, followed his gaze, and mirrored the grin. “Yeah. Group of guys in red shirts walking in front. They are as good as dead.”

  Weylan looked between them. “What are you talking about?”

  Darken started walking. “Told you. You would not understand. Redshirts always die first.”

  Weylan and the two priestesses exchanged confused glances. Mirabelle ventured a guess. “Because they are more visible?”

  Darken rolled his eyes. “No. They are redshirts. I will explain on the way. It is a classic trope from the era of 2D television.”

  He launched into a bewildering tale about the crew of a ship boldly going where no man had gone before. All the while meeting species that all conveniently spoke the same language and differed mainly by unusual foreheads or colorful skin.

  * * *

  The teams entered the Wildewood, each choosing their own direction and pace. Selvara soared high above, scanning for threats, but the dense canopy blocked most of her vision as soon as they entered the forest.

  The forest consumed sound as thoroughly as sight. Even the knights’ song died away.

  Boots pressed into damp loam. Armor whispered. Somewhere to the left, another team jogged, their laughter flashing through the trees like stray arrows. Soon even the laughter faded.

  Ahead, the monastery monks advanced in disciplined silence, occasionally interrupted by a red-robed acolyte performing an unnecessary but impressive flip over a root.

  Team Black marched just behind the were-people, who appeared perfectly content to blaze the trail, especially since it gave them the chance to gossip with a few acquaintances along the way.

  Weylan walked at the front of his team with his new acquisition, Shadelash coiled at his hip.

  He had barely trained with his new enchanted weapon. A fact he now regretted.

  Black leather braids wrapped around a monster-core grip, humming with latent violence.

  He unhooked it.

  “Are we too slow? We’re just following the speed you set. No need to whip us.” Darken quipped from behind.

  “I just want to practice,” Weylan replied.

  He stepped slightly off the path. He had seen, and felt, what happened when he misjudged a strike.

  He uncoiled the whip fully, feeling its weight settle into his wrist. The handle fit comfortably in his palm.

  Stolen story; please report.

  He gave it a small test flick.

  The lash unfurled and snapped with a crisp crack that startled three birds into flight.

  Good.

  He tried a forward strike toward a moss-covered log.

  The whip extended cleanly, but he misjudged the distance by half a pace. The tip struck too soon and rebounded slightly off-center.

  The returning line skimmed far too close to Skandi’s backside.

  The were-beaver ducked instinctively. “Watch the tail!”

  “Sorry,” Weylan muttered.

  At the next short break, Weylan tried again.

  A whip required rhythm. It required space behind and in front. The Wildewood offered little of either.

  He attempted a side crack at a hanging vine. His mind brushed the tiny runes he’d drawn along the braided leather. He channeled shadow mana carefully along the drawn lines to connect to the specific point he wanted the whip to bend.

  The lash curved beautifully… and clipped the vine at an awkward angle. Instead of slicing it, it wrapped around it briefly before snapping free.

  A black squirrel scurried around the trunk to glare at him, seemingly angry to be disturbed.

  Missing his target distracted him for a split-heartbeat. Long enough for shadow-mana to trigger two runes at the wrong points. The lash twisted violently. It hissed back through the air and snapped against Mirabelle’s quarterstaff with a sharp crack.

  Mirabelle stopped walking.

  She examined the faint scratch in the lacquer. “Is this supposed to be a team-building exercise?”

  Weylan lowered the whip. “I am still calibrating.”

  “Calibrate farther away.”

  Stitch’s green eyes tracked the whip carefully. Ready, if it developed ideas of its own.

  Weylan inhaled and tried something simpler.

  He shortened his grip, gathering a bit more of the length in his off hand to reduce reach. Then he executed a small downward crack at a low branch.

  Crack.

  The tip struck true. He triggered the runes at the end, and the whip coiled tightly around the wood.

  He tugged.

  It held until he released the mana, and the coils slipped free.

  He allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction.

  Then he attempted to re-coil the whip while walking back toward his companions.

  That was a mistake.

  The forest floor shifted slightly underfoot. A root caught his heel. His arm lifted slightly too high.

  The lash, instead of falling obediently, arced outward in a lazy loop and brushed across Faya’s shoulder with a sharp snap.

  Faya froze.

  Very slowly, she turned her head. “That could have hit Sir Cloverton.”

  Weylan immediately secured the whip at his belt.

  The problem was not the whip. It went exactly where his wrist commanded. His wrist simply did not yet understand what ten paces meant in a moving formation.

  He adjusted his strap and resumed marching.

  Practice would happen at the next clearing.

  Preferably one without teammates.

  Or trees.

  Or living things.

  Until then, Shadelash would remain holstered, its braided length resting patiently against his side.

  * * *

  A short lunch and a long stretch of road later, the sun began its slow descent. Shadows lengthened like reaching fingers, and beneath the canopy of autumn leaves the light faded quickly.

  Weylan kept a wary eye on the undergrowth. He saw mostly small birds darting between branches and the occasional lizard slipping across bark. Some black-furred squirrels, however, seemed fascinated by the travelers. More and more of them began trailing the group, bounding along the trees overhead, always just within the deeper patches of shade.

  He took a swig from his canteen as Darken stopped in a small clearing. The revenant crouched, examined the grass and low plants, and began gathering a selection with careful hands. Weylan joined him.

  “Are those magical plants?”

  Darken shook his head, cheerfully stuffing grasslike sprigs into his bag. “Nah. Just herbs for cooking.” He paused, let out a delighted squeak, and hurried to a neat thicket of slender stems with tiny oval leaves. He crushed a sprig between his fingers. A warm, peppery scent rose into the cooling air. “Thyme! Perfect for stew. Also, it might even save our lives.”

  Mirabelle approached at once. “What did you find? That looks like normal thyme. That can’t save people… can it? Are there healing applications in your unique alchemical technique?”

  Darken straightened, voice swelling with the authority of a master of the dark arts. “If one of us dies, it will allow us to travel back in time to save them.”

  Mirabelle blinked. “What? That’s impossible. No one can go back in time. Not even the gods. It’s a fundamental limitation of magic. How would that even work?”

  Darken leaned close, lowering his voice conspiratorial. “Thyme travel.”

  Mirabelle blinked, then smacked the back of his head. He only laughed.

  Ursa, the were-she-bear, ambled over and studied the herbs. “Ah. Thyme. Mind if I take some as well?”

  Darken nodded, ducking as Mirabelle raised her hand again.

  The bear cook began collecting thyme and several other plants. “I didn’t expect the Wildewood to be this peaceful. This season it’s usually full of hungry monsters. And goblins.”

  Weylan glanced around immediately, the comment ringing like a dinner bell for trouble. When nothing lunged at him, he relaxed slightly. “Haven’t seen anything unusual besides the squirrels.”

  Ursa straightened and looked around. “What squirrels?”

  Weylan frowned and gestured toward a nearby tree. At least four black-furred squirrels clung to its branches at different heights. “There. They’ve been following us. Probably curious.” He looked back at her. “Did I ever tell you about the time I fought Scourge-Squirrels in a dungeon? Those things were…”

  He trailed off.

  Ursa was still intently squinting at the tree.

  Weylan looked from her to the branches. The squirrels were plainly visible to him, even in the deepening shade. He sighed. “The lowest one is on the third branch from the ground. Left side. Black fur.”

  The other were-people turned to look.

  Darken narrowed his eyes. “The branch is moving… but there’s nothing on it.”

  Skandi’s gaze snapped between them and the tree. His expression changed in an instant. He tore his axe from its holster. “To arms! Form a defensive circle!”

  Faya sprang up from the grass, where she had been feeding the verdant hare select herbs. “What’s going on?”

  Motion erupted around them.

  Black shapes burst from behind trunks and under bushes, leaping from branches like thrown daggers.

  Weylan whirled around. Everyone was looking around wildly, picking up weapons and forming a loose circle on Skandi’s insistent commands. But they were not focusing on the attacking squirrels. What was going on?

  He wasn’t the only one asking, no screaming, this question.

  Skandi shouted the answer. “Ratatoskrkin! Invisible in shadow. Light! We need light! Can anyone cast a light spell?”

  Faya dragged a torch from her pack and fumbled with her fire striker. Too slow. Much too slow.

  Darken yanked out a potion vial filled with faintly glowing liquid and hurled it at a tree. It shattered. Fluorescent fluid splashed across bark and roots.

  Then it faded.

  “Damn,” Weylan drew his shortsword and readied himself to defend against the tiny but fast attackers. “Damn! It’s the scourge-squirrel fight all over again!”

  The first squirrel came into striking distance of Mirabelle, who raised her quarterstaff in a defensive stance. “Something’s moving in the grass, but I can’t see it!”

  Weylan ran toward her.

  The squirrel flickered.

  Then it grew.

  In a heartbeat it swelled to the size of a large dog, its black fur trailing wisps of shadow. Mirabelle’s eyes locked onto it as it lunged. She parried, but its weight slammed her backward. She hit the ground, struggling to keep the beast’s jaws from her face. Its mouth was not filled with blunt rodent teeth but rows of sharp carnivore fangs, wide enough to engulf half her head.

  Battle exploded across the clearing.

  Two beasts latched onto Stitch’s legs, their teeth barely piercing her thick leather. She responded with brutal efficiency. Her cleavers rose and fell in heavy arcs, carving deep wounds. Black blood sprayed, trailing misty shadows. One creature collapsed and shrank mid-fall, partially dissolving into a column of dark smoke.

  Weylan resisted the urge to help her. Stitch carried more life force than the rest of them combined. And she was immune to bleeding out or suffering death from loss of her head or organs.

  He almost paused, but then continued racing at Mirabelle’s opponent. Would Stitch survive losing her head? Well, that wouldn’t matter since the squirrels didn’t look like they had a decapitating attack. They weren’t that big.

  Mirabelle, however…

  A ratatoskrkin leapt at him from the side, quadrupling in size midair. He dodged, only to step into another bursting from the grass. It expanded and sank its teeth into his leg. His blade flashed. The head came off cleanly. As the body shrank, the jaws tore free, ripping a bleeding wound. He ignored the pain and wrenched the severed head away.

  Enemy defeated: Ratatoskrkin, level 2.

  Minimum XP awarded due to level difference.

  The first beast had already wheeled back, snarling, saliva flying. Weylan drew his assassin’s dagger and shifted into a two-weapon stance. His shortsword missed, but the dagger thrust hit solidly. He expected it to cut deep, like he was used to against unarmored opponents, but the blade slid off the surprisingly unyielding fur. Unprepared, he didn’t evade in time and the creature’s teeth sank into his upper arm, tearing muscle. His leather bracers protected only his forearms. Cloth did nothing against fangs. Pain flared bright and sharp. His Pain Resistance enabled him to ignore the wound and continue fighting, but that didn’t decrease the severity, nor the blood loss. Warm liquid seeped along his arm.

  The beast’s claws scraped uselessly against his leather bracer. Weylan wedged his shortsword between his arm and its body and carved a deep gash. It howled and released him. He kicked it aside. It shrank while emitting shadow smoke and limped away.

  With a shout he launched forward, activating Shadow Skate. The world blurred.

  He reached Mirabelle in a gliding arc and slashed across the monster’s flank without slowing. It reared in pain, allowing Mirabelle to shove it off and scramble to her feet.

  It hissed and turned around baring its teeth at Weylan. Its wounds trailed blood and shadows, but they didn’t appear to be fatal.

  Weylan slowed, scanning the battlefield.

  Faya had finally lit the oil-soaked torch. She held it high, chanting a liturgy of Lieselotte. The verdant hare crouched, hiding between her feet, while the were-falcon and were-beaver guarded her. The were-falcon seemed to have a bit of a problem, since he hadn’t managed to get to his weapon and had to fight the giant squirrels unarmed. His talon-like fingers were a poor substitute for a real weapon. The were-beaver more than made up for that. His war-axe had a small head and no spikes or hooks. Compared to the giant two-sided axes most revenant warriors wielded, it seemed harmless. But it wasn’t. In the lumberjack’s hands it whirled around in tight arcs.

  Selvara dropped from the canopy in a dive that ended striking a squirrel trying to flank Stitch. Her talons were small, but lightning crackled as she unleashed Shocking Grasp again and again. The monster tried to shook her off but each casting of the lightning spell made it spasm and drop down again, each time it tried to stand up.

  Ursa fought like a living avalanche. Half a dozen enlarged ratatoskrkin swarmed her. She clawed one, stomped another beneath a booted foot, and slashed a third with a chef’s knife. Still more poured in. Her roar shook the air.

  While the beasts were still a bit hard to see, they got visible when increasing their size right before attacking.

  Light flickering to life at the edge of his vision drew Weylan’s attention. He turned, searching for the source, thinking some spell had misfired behind him. It originated from a thin blue-white thread of light that shimmered across the bark where Darken’s vial had shattered. At first it was barely visible, like a faint vein beneath skin.

  Then it branched.

  The glow crept outward from the point of impact in delicate lines, tracing the tree’s grain. One filament split into three. Three into a web. Each line pulsed, steadied, and then brightened.

  The light grew gradually, heartbeat by heartbeat.

  Shadows retreated step by step. The trunk became laced in luminous veins; the clearing slowly flooded with cold radiance.

  The ratatoskrkin recoiled first, hissing, their black fur edged in silver. As the glow intensified, some at the perimeter broke and fled. The rest skittered backward, eyes reflecting the spreading brilliance.

  Weylan attacked the one before Mirabelle again. It flinched too late, its dark eyes now glaring blindly into the light. It turned to flee.

  He sprinted, leapt, and drove his shortsword down with both hands. The blade scraped along spine before biting deep. The creature shuddered, then shrank around the steel as it died, its body splitting.

  Enemy defeated: Ratatoskrkin, level 2.

  Minimum XP awarded due to level difference.

  You are now eligible to level up from level 6 to level 7.

  Weylan glanced at the notification and exhaled. It felt like ages since his last level up. Feeding experience into the lowest-level team members had been the right choice, but not levelling himself had grated a lot.

  Looking down at himself, he saw his leg wound bleeding freely. He only now felt the mounting dizziness from blood loss and sat down hard. His vision blurred but he could still see Mirabelle hurrying to help him. Other people came from the main group. With enemies fleeing and friends arriving, he let go of the tight grip he’d kept on his pain. It came flooding in all at once.