Once clear of the gate, Dew veered into the alleyways.

  The downpour had thinned the bustle to almost nothing. No one noticed as he activated [Invisible], vanishing from sight, then [Flight], rain pattering off empty air as he rose into the sky.

  Redspire Academy dominated the northern quarter, its unmistakable red roofs stretching across a vast compound. Hundreds of lanterns dotted the grounds, their glow piercing rain and fog alike.

  It had grown dramatically since the last time Dew had been here, some fifty years ago. War had a way of fattening certain institutions. Anyone with deep pockets sent their children somewhere safe, and few places claimed that title like Redspire.

  Zero taxes didn’t hurt either.

  Dew drifted closer, stopping just short of the academy’s wards, above the roof of a seven-story hotel.

  [Shield]

  A thin veil of mana spread across the stone, turning aside rain and wind. He fed warmth into it; pooled water hissed and vanished into steam.

  He touched down on dry stone.

  Dew reached to his neck and caught the thin edge of skin jutting there. The mask peeled away in one smooth piece. He’d donned it outside the city to obscure the telltale details: his complexion, the line of his nose, the set of his chin, the small cues people often remembered strangers by.

  Without it, he was someone else entirely.

  He crumpled the mask in his palm. It gave with a soft, brittle sigh, collapsing into fine gray dust. Dew lifted his hand and blew. The particles scattered into the rain-soaked air and were gone, along with the face that had crossed the gate.

  Next, he took off his coat. Val sprang from its folds, hissing at him for disturbing her sleep.

  Dew chuckled and knelt beside her, rubbing her head and ears. She liked that. Her irritation faded as she curled around his fingers.

  “Cheer up, love. We have work to do,” he said, turning to change. He had an academy to enter; he needed to dress the part.

  “[Inventory],” he summoned. A screen materialized, listing his possessions in neat categories. Dew slid through the rows and selected Clothes & Ornaments, filtering out anything magical.

  A high-collared white shirt. A slate-grey doublet. A structured midnight-blue overcoat. He scrolled a little, then added slim-cut trousers and polished black boots.

  The air shimmered. In a seamless ripple his travel-worn rags faded, replaced by the clean, rich silhouette of the ensemble.

  He adjusted his cuffs. No longer a fugitive. Now a professional of quiet, unquestionable standing.

  Miscellaneous, he slid to, selecting another mask and the documents verifying that face’s identity.

  He put on the mask, peeling it into place from all sides. He glanced at Val. She gave a thumbs-up with her cat paws. It was affixed. Properly.

  Lastly, an umbrella. He closed the [Inventory]. The screen flickered, then died.

  Dew walked to the roof’s edge and peered down. Val jumped into his coat and climbed to his shoulders, scanning the empty alleys with quiet curiosity.

  “Ready?” Dew asked.

  She slipped back inside.

  He opened the umbrella, and stepped off.

  [Float].

  Dew hovered, the layer of air beneath him subtly thickening to bear his weight. He pressed down gently, and it carried him lower.

  Boots hit stone. He snapped his fingers, cutting off the spells. He angled the umbrella; a torrent of wind and rain slammed into the canopy. His gaze caught the window beside him: handsome, soulless eyes staring back.

  Dew plastered on a beaming smile. Much better.

  Off the alley, he crossed the deserted main street. The academy gates lay ahead, warded by a layer of mana invisible to the naked eye. He stepped through without so much as a prickle on his coat. The warding didn’t react. Again, nothing short of the Framework could sense an Archmage, unless he chose otherwise.

  A wave of noise hit Dew at once; shouts, cries, chatter, laughter, and more. He looked up at the red palaces, at the thousands of students within. The session was over, but with the rain still falling, most remained inside their classrooms, filling the halls with a din even the storm couldn’t drown out.

  A subtle smirk crept over Dew’s lips as memories of a distant past surfaced. What was it—two hundred years ago? Back when he wrestled in those hallways, hit on ladies, and pissed off the professors more times than he could count. Fun days, for a stupid, smart-ass Dew.

  Then, a year later, the Cursed One happened, and it was all gone. The lost century took shape. Half the continent fell overnight. The deaths, the rapes, the pillaging…

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  Bitter fragments of that bygone era seeped back in. Dew shook his head, forcing them away. He remembered why he hated nostalgia.

  A short breath, and he moved on.

  Dew kept his body relaxed, his pace measured, as he strolled through the empty compound. He paused at a newly built fountain at its center, courtesy of Duke Searnath, and read the plaque at its base. The entire anatomy of the academy was etched into the stone.

  “Away from the Crown Palace. Into the Garden of Life, and beside the Blue Pond… House of Alchemy,” Dew murmured. “Right.” He set off.

  His heart picked up, only slightly—and against his better judgment. Excitement bubbled up anyway. Years of running had led to this moment. Part of him still couldn’t quite believe it: all he had to do was deliver a few dragon hearts, and he’d be allowed to learn from the very best in the field.

  The lush garden stretched out around him. Beyond it rose the boundary of the House of Alchemy.

  Inside those doors waited Inessa var Valenza, a prodigy in Alchemy arts. He would hand over the menial items. She would hire him as her assistant and teach him everything she knew. And Dew learned fast. A few months, perhaps, and he would switch his profession.

  Just like that.

  He would be free. He could finally settle down in the quiet peaks of the Heartshire mountains.

  The wind carried the scent of a hundred potions brewing, drifting Dew’s way. He recognized a few of them; most he didn’t. He’d never had much interest in the field. The craft was slow and tedious. An Archmage’s time was better spent elsewhere.

  Yet the scent didn’t irritate him as it should have. He found he liked it. A shame he’d never gotten around to trying the craft.

  Until today.

  Dew climbed the stairs and set his umbrella aside. He pushed the door open, and warm air rushed out, washing away the wet and cold.

  Before him lay a sight to behold. An atrium. At its center stood a colossal tree, reaching for the heavens, its crown piercing the palace’s open ceiling. The sky was visible above, yet there was no rain, no darkness. Instead, the ward that kept nature at bay lit the space below.

  Hundreds upon hundreds of students mingled across the hall, chatting, walking, reading. Birds chirped among the branches, and butterflies traced delicate trails of light through the air.

  Dew drew in a deep breath. The air was fresh and sweet, laced with herbs and mixtures that rejuvenated even him.

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. Now this was coin well spent.

  He stepped inside. The door shut behind him. He waved at a bespectacled fellow looking his way.

  “Where’s Professor Inessa at?” Dew asked, a gentle smile on his lips.

  The boy pointed upward, toward the seventh floor.

  The circular superstructure housed a dozen levels. On the seventh, shelves blurred together into walls, and students slipped in and out with arms full of books and loose notes, never staying long.

  Dew followed their path.

  The library. And beyond it, the professor’s study.

  “Thanks, friend.”

  Dew was already moving, climbing stair after stair, floor after floor. With every step, the excitement underneath pressed harder, threatening to spill over. He knew better.

  His mind didn’t care.

  This is it, it whispered. This is it.

  Seventh floor. Dew paced.

  He wove through clusters of students, eyes fixed on the professor’s chamber across the aisle. He reached it, hand lifting to knock—

  A man stepped out from between the shelves and cut him off.

  Tall. Taller than Dew. Lean, well-built. Black hair, brown eyes. Not a student’s uniform, but a gray robe and cloak set.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, face unreadable. “Do you have an appointment?”

  Dew produced the recruitment papers. “Yes.”

  The man took them. “Oh. These.” His brows rose as he read. Line by line, his expression tightened.

  “About that…” He let the words hang, gaze drifting aside.

  “Yes?” Dew prompted.

  “The requirements have changed. You’ll need to bring a vampire heart instead of a dragon’s.”

  Dew paused. Blinked.

  “I’m sorry—what?”

  * * *

  Captain Cornwall stationed himself outside city hall, his platoon arrayed behind him. One hand held the umbrella; the other tightened into a fist and rested firm against his chest. Anyone crossing the main street met his steely gaze as it swept them head to toe, searching for the messenger who should have arrived ten minutes ago.

  He hadn’t. But Cornwall knew he would.

  The word had been relayed the moment the messenger left the Red Gate. Despite it not being his shift, Cornwall had taken it upon himself to escort the man to the High Mage. The garrison wouldn’t be pleased, but the chance to get close to someone tied to an Archmage made it worth the trouble.

  Once the other captains and knights saw him alongside the messenger, they wouldn’t interfere. They always looked down on him, said he wasn’t one of them, his hands too soft for real work. But once those hands had shaken one of the Gold-blooded…

  Cornwall smirked.

  An honor reserved for the rarest few.

  They’d lose their minds. Never dare speak out of turn again.

  And it wasn’t as if they could say anything to his face. His uncle was the treasurer who paid the garrison.

  Cornwall wondered what message could be so urgent, sent by Sybilla the Gold-veined—the only soul in existence to hunt and kill a deity, a Primordial Dragon, and drink its golden blood.

  Perhaps the southern kingdoms had united and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse, one that required the High Mage, one of her prodigies, to seal the deal. Or perhaps she wanted Redspire’s aid outright.

  Either way, it was hard to say no to an Archmage.

  Unless the other six objected.

  Five, he corrected himself. Dewald the coward had long since vanished, and with security this tight across the continent, would never surface again.

  The patter of rain on Cornwall’s umbrella ceased. He was just about to check why when the master-assistant Degogo stepped up beside him, dead-grey eyes lifted in irritation.

  [Shield], Cornwall knew. Cutting the rain short.

  “Where’s the messenger, Corny?” the short man asked.

  Cornwall hated the name. But against a mage, all he could do was tolerate it.

  “He’ll be here shortly,” Cornwall said, looking aside, voice flat. “My men are on him—”

  “No, they aren’t, dumbass,” Degogo cut in. “They just reported in. They lost him. Can’t find him anywhere in the southern quarter. Where is he?”

  Cornwall flinched. What?

  He turned back, brows raised, about to ask—

  “Find him,” Degogo snapped. “At once.”