The day after the simulation, Sylas woke up to the worst kind of pain.
Not physical.
Social.
People were talking. About him. Again.
And not just in the usual "is that the guy who insulted the Headmistress and lived?" kind of way. This time it was more… approving.
Which, frankly, was terrifying.
"You're becoming visible," Mira whispered as she handed him a cup of tea. "People are saying you led a successful team against a Class B Magical Construct."
"I nearly died choking on a smoke bomb," Sylas muttered. "Liora handed me a cursed muffin mid-fight."
Mira shrugged. "Well, leadership is about appearances."
At breakfast, Damien nodded at him from across the hall.
A nod.
No death threats. No passive-aggressive dagger sharpening.
Just… acknowledgment.
Sylas nearly dropped his spoon.
Then came Liora, who floated by, humming, and left a tiny enchanted cupcake on his plate. It blinked.
"I baked that to apologize," she said brightly. "It might explode."
Vivienne sat down next to him like it was a routine now. "We have another mission," she said without looking up from her book.
Sylas groaned. "Is this my life now? Waking up to magical murder homework and spontaneous friendship?"
"Yes."
The mission came from the top.
As in, from Headmistress Althea Everhart herself—who had apparently been watching the entire simulation with unnerving interest.
The note was short:
"Your team has potential. Don't waste it. You'll be escorting an external magical envoy through the Northern Wards tomorrow. Try not to get killed—or embarrass the Academy."
Sylas blinked at the message. "Was that… encouragement?"
Vivienne nodded. "From her? Yes. Be afraid."
The envoy turned out to be worse than expected.
Not because they were evil.
But because they were cheerful.
"Hello!" said the woman, stepping off the carriage. "I'm Ambassador Nessa Wynn! Let's have a productive trip!"
Sylas stared at her radiant grin, long pink cape, and sun-shaped brooch.
"Did someone summon a protagonist from a happier story?"
"She's an Arch-Ward of the Sunrise Order," Vivienne explained under her breath. "They believe in optimism as a combat stance."
"I want to go home."
They traveled in silence for hours, riding through silver-frosted forests and quiet stone paths enchanted against monsters.
Sylas kept checking the treetops. He had a bad feeling.
Liora floated behind the envoy like a shadow. Damien refused to speak unless necessary. Vivienne kept scanning the map.
Everything was too quiet.
Until it wasn't.
A scream echoed through the trees—sharp, abrupt, and definitely not human.
Then: shadows moved.
Figures emerged from the woods. Too tall. Too twisted. Their bodies stitched from various beasts—patched abominations that flickered at the edges of perception.
Necro-stitched hybrids. Forbidden.
And illegal.
Ambassador Wynn's smile faltered. "Oh dear."
The fight was instant chaos.
Sylas shoved the envoy behind him as Damien clashed swords with the first hybrid. Vivienne vanished into smoke, reappearing behind two others, daggers flashing.
Liora screamed something in Old Fae and called down a lightning strike that nearly missed Sylas's face.
"Warning next time!" he yelled.
"You're fine! Mostly!"
Sylas reached for the binding sigil in his coat, slammed it onto the ground, and activated a ward dome.
It flickered, glitching under corrupted magic.
"We need to retreat," Vivienne said, slashing down a stitched wolf-serpent. "This is organized. Someone sent them."
Sylas's mind worked fast—too fast.
He saw the patterns. The coordination. The spell cores embedded in the hybrids' chests.
Then he saw it: the sigil carved into the nearest tree.
A jagged crown over an inverted eye.
He froze.
That symbol—he knew it.
And worse, it knew him.