~ REED ~
The sky was bleeding. Red and orange swathes, obscured by clouds of smoke, swept over the horizon.
I couldn't breathe. Every gasp dragged in the stench of scorched earth and burning bodies. The taste of smoke clung to my tongue like ash. Screams rose through the crackle of fire and the thunder of collapsing stone. The air wasn't hot, it was furious. It clawed at my skin, howled in my ears, poured into my lungs like punishment.
The academy wasn't burning. It was being devoured.
Outside, buildings caved in. Windows shattered, sending blades of glass spinning through the smoke, each one catching the firelight like a falling star. Above me, beams groaned. One split with a crack like a gunshot.
"Move!" I shouted, slamming the door open with my shoulder.
The heat hit us like a wall. Smoke coiled in, thick and choking. I gestured down the burning corridor.
"Down the stairs. Now."
The siblings ran first, coughing and barefoot, slipping on the scorched floorboards. I grabbed their cousin, a younger boy, by the arm and pulled him out after them. He was slowing down. Perhaps he was too exhausted or too blinded by his tears to see where he was going.
The second floor was shaking. Wood groaned under our feet. Somewhere behind us, a wall collapsed. We sprinted down the hall, moving as fast as we could, sticking together. Fire tore through the ceiling like paper, and a beam crashed through it just ahead, blocking our path to the main stairwell.
"Go left!" I yanked the boys down the side corridor, trying to remember if it still connected to the western stairwell.
The youngest of the three stumbled. I caught him, barely keeping hold as the floor trembled beneath us. Another explosion rocked the building. Closer this time. We finally reached the stairs. The door was torn off its hinge, already opened. A clear sign that someone else had forced it open. I only hoped they had made it out alive.
Smoke billowed up from the landing below, thick enough to sting my throat. Flames crawled along the walls and chewed through what was left of the railing.
The oldest, Idris, didn't wait for me. He flew down the stairs. His brother, Isren, followed him. His foot slipped on soot, and he tumbled down the stairs. Idris lunged, caught his wrist, and yanked him back up in a heap.
Then the stairs beneath me splintered. I felt the sharp drop as the center gave out entirely. Wood tore free from the frame with a snap like breaking bones, and the entire midsection collapsed into fire.
I didn't stop to think. I grabbed the youngest against my chest, turned, and pushed off the last solid step.
There was nothing graceful about the landing. I hit the ground hard on one knee, twisting to keep the kid from slamming into the floor. Pain burst down my leg, but I held on. I got up and stepped away from the stairs. I led us into a hallway. Dust and embers rained down on top of us, but the front door was visible now. Barely. Flames curled along the archway. I limped forward. My leg kept me from moving too fast, and the added carry weight wasn't doing me any favors, but I pressed on. I had to get them out.
One of the siblings froze, glancing back to see if I was still with them.
"Keep moving, Isren!" I shouted.
We sprinted the last stretch. The floor cracked behind us. I didn't look back. The youngest, I think his name was Ivan, was wheezing against my chest. I felt his body jerk violently as he coughed. It was hard for him to breathe. His airway was damaged.
The door was close. Ten steps ahead, then five—
Part of the second floor fell straight down. I dove, rolled, and hit the stone hard, shielding the kid in my arms. It felt like I dislocated my shoulder. But we were so close. We were almost out. The front door was blocked with debris. There was no time to think. I grabbed the siblings, pushed them forward, and threw myself against the door. It cracked under the force, splintering and falling away.
We crashed through the threshold and hit the ground outside, dust choking our lungs. Behind us, the dorm gave a terrible shudder. Inside, the second floor collapsed, then the whole building came down, like a tower of ash and fire.
I hugged the boy, stroked the top of his head, and pulled his cousins closer. I hugged all three of them. I was shaking. But so were they. The youngest was quietly sobbing into my chest. His fox ears pulled flat against the back of his head, with his tail curled in tight. I splayed my hand over his back and poured my mana into him.
"I will heal your wounds, Ivan."
I felt the spell whisper against his skin before entering the frightened boy and mending his wounds. I was gentle and careful not to hurt him. Before long, he was breathing normally again. His cousins reached for him, stroking his light ginger hair out of his face. I set the boy down, gave the siblings a quick nod to hold him, and turned toward the battlefield. The night sky was obscured behind a red-orange glow and a swelling cloud of black smoke. I couldn't see the stars anymore. And the two moons were nowhere in sight. Everything was on fire. The buildings, the gardens, even the forest surrounding the academy. Screams echoed faintly, but they were cut short.
I stepped into the open, my boots crunching over glass and debris. The courtyard spread before me, and for a moment, I found myself unable to breathe. It was not a battlefield. It was a grave.
Bodies lay scattered in unnatural positions, twisted as though thrown aside like broken dolls. I recognized faces among them. Students I had passed in the hallways and spoken to just yesterday. Their eyes were still open, wide and glassy, staring at nothing. Fear was etched into every line of their features, as if the moment of terror had been carved into them forever.
Some had been torn apart so completely that I could not tell where one body ended and another began. Limbs lay torn from their bodies, some wrenched so far from where they'd fallen that I couldn't tell who they belonged to. A girl I recognized by her braid was missing half her face. A boy's chest had been split open, his ribs splayed like broken gates. Strips of flesh clung to the jagged remains of stone walls, as if something had flung it there. The cobblestones were slick underfoot, every groove filled with dark, glistening red.
A flicker in the smoke caught my eye. Movement. I saw no figure, but it was as if the smoke parted for whatever stood inside of it. A Daemun. One of the creatures responsible for this blood bath. I dropped low, one hand steady on my sword. My knee screamed at me, but I was ready to fight whatever threatened us.
'It has to be a Fyre. It looks too big to be anything else.'
Then, to my right, I saw a familiar face. Oslo emerged from the haze, bruised and bloodied, with his left eye nearly swollen shut. His leather armor was torn at his side, slashed apart by razor-sharp claws, and his blade was gone. His red fox ears twitched, catching sounds, and his tail fur was matted with blood and seared at the tip. He wasn't fully transformed. He was too injured to risk it.
"Your Highness," Oslo rasped, breath ragged. "Thank the stars you are unharmed."
"Sir Oslo..." I replied, scanning the chaos around us. The distortion I'd seen earlier had vanished, but I did not trust that we were safe. "Why are you not at Rivian's side?"
"His Highness sent me to find you. He asked me to relay the situation. Arcane Academy has become a battlefield. The Demicaux clan has launched a full-scale assault against Cain's forces. They intend to claim him."
'Why would they try to claim him?'
I didn't have the time to think about it, not with invisible threats surrounding us.
"And the students?" I asked.
"Scattered. Many have fallen. But there are survivors. We are gathering them on the western cliff. Cain's allies are gathering there. We must move quickly if we are to escort them out safely. The Daemun are using those who still draw breath to gather strength. They have need of your skills. Many are injured."
I gave a firm nod. "Very well. But before we ascend the western cliff, we must reach the combat arena. If anyone remains there, we cannot abandon them."
Oslo inclined his head. "Understood, Your Highness. I will lead us there."
"No." I shook my head. "That is unwise. Guard the rear."
He gave a silent nod and stepped back to position himself behind the others, his steps uneven, favoring his left leg. Blood had soaked through the side of his armor, and his arm hung awkwardly at his side.
I moved beside him without hesitation and reached for his wrist. "Give me your arm."
"I will be alright, Your Highness."
"I was not asking."
Sir Oslo glanced at my leg. Nothing slipped past him. He knew I was just as battered as he was. But I could not heal myself. I could only heal others. He sighed, then extended his injured arm toward me. The gash running from his wrist to his elbow was raw and oozing.
I drew in a slow breath and pressed two fingers to the edge of the wound, just beneath the torn fabric of his sleeve. This injury he likely received from a fall, but the other one had clear claw marks. Something he received from a Fyre and barely managed to evade.
"Hold still. This will sting."
Mana pulsed into my fingertips, subtle and precise. He wasn't as young as Ivan, so I knew he could handle more of my mana at once. I closed my eyes for half a heartbeat, feeling for the damaged flesh. The muscles beneath the skin had torn unevenly, and small splinters of wood were embedded near the bone. I focused there first.
A thin stream of turquoise light snaked from my palm into the wound, weaving itself through the tissue. The bleeding stopped. I guided the mana deeper, encouraging the foreign fragments to rise to the surface. Oslo gritted his teeth but didn't make a sound as I drew them out with a sharp flick of energy. They dropped to the ground beside us.
"Nearly finished," I said softly, adjusting my hand.
Another slow breath. The torn muscle began to stitch together beneath the surface. I smoothed the skin last, leaving behind only a faint pink line where the wound had been. I moved to the side of his torso next, just under the ribs, where I had seen the blood.
The damage was worse there. Four parallel gashes curved downwards, a cracked rib bent inwards and there was some internal bruising. I pressed my palm flat and concentrated again, funneling the mana in a steady, controlled stream. Heat radiated through the skin as the bone shifted back into place. The wounds sealed up, the bruising faded beneath the surface, and Oslo let out a breath he must have been holding the whole time.
My head throbbed faintly, but my control hadn't wavered. "It is not a full recovery," I told him. "You will be sore, but the pain should not limit your movement. You can fully take form now."
He flexed his arm slowly. "Thank you. I feel strong enough to fight."
"Good. I need you at full strength."
I turned back to the children. Ivan was being carried by Idris, while Isren held onto his brother's arm. All of them watched me with wide eyes. Their trust was silent but heavy. They trained their eyes on my face and forced themselves to ignore the carnage around them. The blood gathering between their toes and the string of flesh at their feet.
The three of them were Demi children from the western forests of Thaenia. Foxes from the same quiet village. I remembered seeing them arrive just a week ago, wide-eyed and eager, certain they'd found a dream at the most prestigious academy in all of Ri'elle. But that dream hadn't lasted long. Seven days later, they were standing in the middle of a nightmare they had no place in. They'd seen more death in a single night than most should in a lifetime. I could see it in their eyes. Shock, disbelief, and something worse. The kind of knowing that would never leave them. A pain that would leave a mark on their souls.
"Come. Standing idle is too risky. We must move. Daemun might surround us any second." I barely kept my voice from trembling. I had to be strong. For them. For all the children still fighting. I turned around and started moving, stepping over someone's severed legs. Sir Oslo, a royal guard usually serving under my brother, slipped silently behind the three children, ready to protect them.
Their small, frightened forms cast flickering shadows in the firelight as we passed through the courtyard.
We crossed into the academy garden, the heart of the entire school. It stretched wide in every direction, sprawling with winding stone paths, tall hedges, and layered flowerbeds that had once been so dense they felt like walls. The canopy of trees overhead had filtered sunlight into shifting patterns, and you could lose yourself in the colors: deep greens, bright and colorful blooms, petals drifting across the walkways in spring. At the center stood the fountain, its white stone carved with winding vines, surrounded by statues of every headmaster who had come before.
Now, it was unrecognizable.
The hedges were nothing but black skeletons, branches twisted and smoking. The flowers were gone, ground to streaks of soot across shattered paths. The trees were split down the middle, trunks sheared into jagged points, still burning at their tips. The statues lay toppled and broken, faces missing, limbs buried under rubble. The fountain's bowl was cracked open, water long since boiled away, leaving behind only blackened streaks and a deep scorch mark at its base.
Above us, every archway and trellis burned with crawling sheets of fire, flames that didn't just spread, but crept with intent, tearing through everything as effortlessly as it shredded wood.
The air scorched my throat with every breath, dry and heavy enough to make me cough. Stepping into the garden didn't bring any relief. It was the same oppressive heat we had just escaped in the dorm, like walking from one furnace straight into another.
"Stay close," I told the children. "Do not scatter. Eyes forward."
They obeyed, clutching sleeves, moving tight together as we advanced.
That was when I saw him.
Headmaster Wilka crouched at the base of the broken fountain, surrounded by shattered marble and small pools of dirty water. His robes hung in tatters, streaked with ash, dust, and long trails of dried blood. A dark smear ran across his left shoulder, soaking through the cloth. In his hand, he held a faintly glowing red crystal. Its surface was fractured, light seeping through hair-thin cracks in slow, uneven pulses, like a failing heartbeat trapped in stone.
I was about to call out when the air above him twisted, just slightly, like heat shimmering over stone. My instincts screamed before my mind caught up. My hand shot to my sword, steel rasping against the sheath as I broke into a sprint.
The distortion streaked toward Wilka with a speed that made my gut clench. It was low to the ground, six distinct points driving it forward in a blur. I threw myself between them. I swung hard. The blade struck resistance midair—something solid beneath the invisibility—and a screech tore the silence, not from a mouth I could see, but from everywhere at once.
The shape recoiled, warping sideways with unnatural flexibility, then circled fast, the distortion blurring into a smear of motion. I pivoted, tracking the shift in the air, my breathing loud in my ears.
It came again.
I met it with a rising slash. I did not allow it to pounce. One last strike split it apart down the middle, the distortion shredding into smoke that twisted once, then broke apart entirely, fading into nothing but the faint stench of burned air. Whatever it was, burned up and disappeared, leaving nothing but ash in its wake.
Wilka didn't flinch. He simply turned the crystal once more between his fingers, studying the cracks as though he was examining something deeper, then closed his hand around it and met my gaze. He gave me a single short nod before standing. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as he slipped the crystal into his pocket.
"Your Highness," he said, voice steady. "You should not be here."
"I could say the same to you, Headmaster. What are you doing out in the open?" I glanced over his frame. Wilka's ebony brown hair was tied back into a messy bun. Strands waved over his face as a slight breeze passed between us. His jade green eyes narrowed slightly, annoyed that I was examining him. I glanced down. His black robes were torn but aside from the blood on his shoulder, he seemed fine. More than fine. He was calm. Unbothered. As if the academy burning to the ground was nothing to worry about.
"Ah, well," He brushed ash from his sleeve and straightened his robe. "I was heading west, but something caught my eye. Where are you headed, Your Highness?"
"The arena," I replied.
"Then move quickly." His eyes swept the arches overhead, watching the fire closing off paths like a tightening net. "Every side route is either blocked or too narrow. The main road is the only option."
His voice was certain. He always spoke like that, like he never left room for argument. Most people found that annoying, but in a way, I respected it.
"I will accompany you," Wilka continued, tone firm. "Your Highness, you take point, since you can see the Daemun. Oslo, take the rear guard. I will stay in the center with the children and keep us moving."
Wilka was right. I could see them. But only barely. Most people couldn't. To me, their presence showed as faint shimmers in the smoke, like heatwaves bending light where nothing should be. Subtle distortions. Ripples in the air that didn't belong.
At least I could see something. Most others saw nothing at all—only the aftermath. To be torn apart by an enemy they couldn't see, to die without ever knowing what struck them... There was nothing more terrifying.
The younger students shifted immediately. Even Oslo adjusted his stance without a word.
"Keep formation," Wilka added. "Do not break ranks for any reason. Stick together."
"You are injured, Headmaster," I said, offering him my hand.
"Nothing I cannot manage," he said, giving a dismissive shrug. He passed me, ignoring my extended hand, and placed himself next to Idris. I turned. There was no time to worry about him. Or to be bothered that he didn't accept my help. We moved quickly. The road to the arena stretched out ahead, lined with burning trees and broken statues, the fire so hot it warped the air. Distorted shapes flickered in the haze, pacing us along the edges, waiting for a misstep.
'They are waiting for everyone to arrive...' I realized. 'I see. They are using the fire to funnel survivors towards the arena. I will not allow them to trap us.'
The main road spilled us into the combat arena. What had once been the academy's pride, a sprawling field of perfect dueling rings and tiered stone stands, was now a pit of smoke and fire. Training dummies lay scattered like corpses, some half-melted, others burning with unnatural flames. The high walls that had once kept spectators safe now trapped the heat inside, choking everyone in a haze of ash and orange light.
'This does not make any sense. Daemun are strongest in the dark. Why are they using fire that weakens them? To what end?'
Near the center of the arena, a cluster of students had formed a tight circle, backs pressed against one another as they fought to hold their ground. There were already close to forty of them, more no doubt on their way, as the fire outside forced them to pass through here.
A few were Maji, their elemental magic flickering weakly, but most were Demi, wielding blades, spears, and shields forged from condensed mana. Regalia. The shapes bent and shimmered with every swing, dimming as fatigue and fear weighed them down. Every movement was rushed, uneven, driven by panic rather than skill.
They were surrounded by Katyrs. Small, four-legged Daemun, agile and silent. Invisible, like all the rest, but their weight pressed into the sand, leaving thin lines where they prowled, faint impressions that betrayed their presence.
I realized what they were doing. The Katyrs weren't just attacking; they were corralling the students, striking at angles to push them closer together. Each feint and lunge forced the circle to shrink, each strike herded them inward, compressing their space, limiting their movement. The smaller the circle became, the easier it would be for the Daemun to pick them off. Every moment the students moved in, their panic grew, and I could feel the trap tightening around them.
I clenched my sword tighter, stepping forward. They had to hold the line, and I had to make sure the circle didn't collapse entirely. When they noticed me leading the group in, relief showed plainly across several faces.
Then they saw Wilka and their relief disappeared.
They didn't greet him. Didn't even nod. A boy with a spear of pale red light muttered something under his breath and gave a sharp laugh. Another girl, older and bleeding from the temple, openly turned her back on him and refocused on the fight as if he wasn't worth the breath to acknowledge.
Wilka didn't react. He never did.
But I saw where his gaze was fixed. Not on the students, but on me. His eyes tracked my stance, the shift of my weight, the snap of my attention. He couldn't see the Daemun himself, but he didn't need to. He read where I was looking, where I was ready to strike, and he positioned himself to act the second I moved.
"Why is he even here?" someone asked.
"How is he still alive? Shouldn't he be dead? I saw him get tackled in the library," another chimed in.
Whispers spread through the crowd. All aimed at Headmaster Wilka.
"Hold your tongues," I said, loud enough for the whole circle to hear.
The air near the left flank bent slightly, the ripple darting closer. Footprints pressed into the sand below. Few noticed it.
Wilka saw me pivot and didn't hesitate. His arm snapped out, seizing a boy by the collar and yanking him back an instant before claws slashed through empty air where he'd been standing.
I lunged, steel flashing as my sword carved the Daemun apart. It exploded into black ash mid-swipe and a small red crystal dropped into the sand at our feet. Wilka leaned down, picked it up, and casually stuffed it into his pocket, as if claiming a trophy.
The boy staggered back into formation, pale and shaking. He didn't thank Wilka. Didn't even look at him.
"Fire affiliates," Wilka said evenly, his voice slicing through the roar of battle, "there are only five of you. Form a star immediately and face outward, each in a separate direction. Air affiliates, move to positions beside them. The rest of you—fall in behind them. Demi—hold the front line. Strike only when you are certain. Wasted swings drain you faster than wounds."
A girl rolled her eyes, and a boy snickered beside her, mocking the order. A ripple of laughter ran through the back of the formation, loud and careless.
I stepped forward, boots crunching against sand and debris, steel in hand. My voice cut sharp and cold. "Stop pretending you know better. You trained under Headmaster Wilka. Every strategy you are ignoring, every position you are bending, comes from him. And yet you look down on him because he has no magic, because you thought yourselves smarter, faster, stronger than a man who cannot cast spells. Your arrogance will be the death of you."
I let the words sink in, letting the weight of truth hit them. "Look at yourselves now. Exhausted. Terrified. Struggling to hold the line. And still, you ignore what you were taught. If you continue like this, you will die. Follow his orders. Follow the tactics you scorned. Stop thinking you are better than the one who has taught you how to survive."
The laughter vanished. Eyes flicked between Wilka and me, some straightening in shame, others trembling with fear. Even in the chaos, Wilka's presence carried a quiet authority. He did not speak. His eyes flicked to the top of the arena where the massive iron braziers sat cold and dark. He drew in breath, but before he could speak, one of the older students followed his line of sight.
"The braziers," she said quickly. "If we light them, it'll push the Daemun back."
"That's insane," another student snapped from the circle. He was older, maybe fifteen, his mana-spear wavering in his hands. "You want to set off that much fire while we're trapped in here? It'll kill us."
A bone-chilling howl ripped through the air like a living thing, a low, guttural roar that rattled teeth, pressed against ribs, and made the sand underfoot vibrate. The Daemun surrounding us all perished in an instant. The scream of it was ancient, full of warning and command, forcing every head to snap upward. Our lungs caught as if the howl had drawn the breath from our bodies. The students staggered instinctively, knees wobbling, grips slipping on mana-blades and spears. Hair stood on end, ears rang, and some stumbled backward, almost falling over themselves. Even those who had faced Daemun before seemed caught off guard by the raw force of it.
A massive silhouette appeared atop the arena, backlit by the faint reflection of the fire eating through the academy. It was wolf-like and moved with impossible grace. It was staring down at us, two tails flicking behind it with precise, predatory intent. We could see nothing else. Only the outline, an impossible shape carved against the night sky. The figure gave a single, deliberate nod in my direction, and then, as if swallowed by shadow, it vanished eastward over the open roof.
Wilka stepped forward and lowered to his knee. While everyone was still coming to their senses, he reached for something in the sand. I watched him pick up a small purple crystal. My breath caught in my throat. It did not belong to Daemun of the Demicaux clan. Purple crystals, as light as lavender, belonged to members of Petraeus. It was no longer a battle between two clans, but three, and one we had thought to be our allies.
I snapped my head left, eyeing the sand for confirmation. Purple. All of them. Not a single red amongst their ashes. Uneasiness settled in my spine.
'So, that's what Sir Oslo meant,' I thought. 'They really are trying to claim him.'
I moved to step east, to join Cain, but Wilka rose slowly and planted himself directly in front of me. His movements were calm, measured, but there was a tension in his shoulders I recognized. A tightness in his jaw, a slight tremor in his fingers.
"Your Highness," he said finally, voice low and even, "do not fool yourself into thinking that you are of help to them. The professors are strong enough to face this alone. But you are not. You must head west."
I shook my head, teeth clenched. "No. I will go east. I will join the battle."
He held my gaze, his expression controlled, but I saw it, just a flicker, a brief hesitation in his eyes, as though the weight of what he wanted to say almost slipped past the mask.
"Your brothers—" he began.
"—They do not need me." I cut him off, voice sharp.
"Your brothers may be capable," he said, measured, but I noticed the smallest quiver in his voice, "but they are far from invincible."
I stared, and in that moment, I understood: he was holding himself together with sheer will, keeping calm for my sake, for the children's sake. He was trying not to let me see the worry behind his eyes.
A long pause stretched between us. Then he exhaled sharply and let his shoulders slump just a fraction. "Go, then. I will not stop you," he said, voice steady but heavier now, the mask finally slipping. "But understand this: the price of closed ears is a heavy burden on the heart. I have warned you. You'd best remember that. I will escort these children west. Please... be safe, Your Highness."
I nodded once, silently, feeling the weight of his unspoken fear settle over me. Then I turned east, each step determined, knowing he would shoulder the children west without complaint, even as his composure quietly cracked behind the mask.
Behind me, Wilka's voice cut through the chaos, firm and exacting:
"Fire affiliates, take the lead! Air affiliates, shield the flanks! Demi, form the center line and hold it at all costs! Everyone else, fall in behind and keep tight! We are heading west! No one strays, no one lags! Move with purpose."
Each word landed like steel, leaving no room for hesitation. The students scrambled to obey, their movements hurried but precise, following the order he had drilled into them countless times.
I kept walking, my focus east where the brunt of the war was being fought alone.