The next morning dawned grey and drizzling, a fine mist that clung to the academy's stone and turned the training grounds to mud. The news about the "plague-ridden bandits" was the talk of the mess hall. The guard patrol had returned at dawn, confirming the merchant's tale. They'd found a camp of broken men, one dead leader, and a lot of confused, feverish babbling about shadows. The official word from the Provost's office, read aloud by a bored-looking third-year prefect, was that a contaminated beast core or a rogue alchemical experiment was to blame. The area was being cleansed. The incident was closed.
Eric listened while stirring his tea, the warmth of the mug doing nothing to melt the ice in his gut. Closed. They'd swept his nightmare into a neat, logical box and filed it away. He was safe. The ghost story had been explained away. He should have felt relief.
