Jim’s mind ran miles in seconds.

  Who the hell was he supposed to warn?

  Not Elmsley — not after last night. That smug bastard would sooner blame Jim than believe him.

  Plandorph, maybe.

  Maybe he’d listen. Maybe.

  His hand went to the inner pocket of his wax coat, fingers brushing the familiar lump of cold metal. He pulled out a star flare — old, dented, paint chipped away to dull brass, but still serviceable. Emergency-use only.

  Well. This sure as shit qualified.

  He held it up, aimed it toward the sky, and smacked his palm hard against the base.

  With a thunderous whoosh, the flare screamed into the inky pre-dawn heavens, cutting a fiery orange arc across the black. It burst high above the academy grounds, a blinding flash that washed the world in molten light for a heartbeat.

  Then darkness rushed back in, thicker than before. The silence that followed pressed on Jim’s ears like a weight.

  Within seconds, distant shouts began to echo across the grounds. Doors slammed. Boots pounded against stone. Figures spilled out from around the paddock — some running hard, others stumbling, still half-awake and clutching cloaks over nightclothes.

  Two older students came into view first — a boy and a girl. Gowns disheveled, hair wild, eyes glassy from whatever they’d been up to.

  Jim took one look at the way they avoided each other’s gaze, at the hay clinging to their sleeves.

  Probably snuck off to shag behind the hay bales, he thought, lips curling. Timing’s bloody perfect.

  “Go get some of your tutors,” Jim barked. “Now.”

  The pair just blinked at him, bleary-eyed, confusion still swimming behind their pupils.

  Jim stepped forward, jabbing a finger like a spear in their direction.

  “Fucking go and do as I said, you dirty stop-outs!”

  That did it. They flinched like whipped dogs, then turned and bolted, robes flapping behind them like limp sails in a dead wind.

  Jim looked back down at the lad, really seeing him this time.

  The boy’s eyes were closed. No pain in the features. No fear twisted into his mouth. He looked like he was simply sleeping, out in the frost, waiting for dawn to shake him awake.

  Jim hoped it had been quick.

  He knelt beside the body, lowering himself with a quiet grunt as his knees cracked. Calloused fingers hovered, then pressed gently to the boy’s forehead — a touch awkward, but steady.

  Under his breath, he muttered a prayer. Nothing grand. No flowing scripture, no polished words. Just something half-remembered from another time, another place, where bodies lay thick on the ground and prayers were the only thing a man could still offer.

  A battlefield thing. For those who didn’t get a second chance.

  When the words ran out, Jim exhaled hard, frost puffing from his lips. “I fucking hate this school,” he muttered, rising stiffly and brushing frost from his knees.

  Branches snapped behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

  Elmsley came bustling through the trees, robes swishing, face sour as spoiled milk. “What in heaven’s name is going on?” he barked, already puffed up, already ready to play to an audience.

  Jim didn’t even look at him. Eyes stayed on the academy walls.

  “We’ve lost another one,” he said simply, voice flat.

  Then he turned and started walking toward the academy. Heavy steps echoed through the frost, each one loud in the silence.

  Didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t care if Elmsley followed.

  Let him.

  Jim pushed through the double doors of the academy, his boots striking hard against the stone, the sound carrying down the cold, hollow halls.

  Each thump of Jim’s boots sent a dull reverberation up into the vaulted ceiling, like war drums that had forgotten how to stop.

  He didn’t slow.

  Didn’t nod at the few early risers who passed him, scurrying out of his way with curious glances.

  Didn’t speak.

  He climbed the central staircase, heading toward Plandorph’s chambers.

  As he rose, the walls closed in with memories. Old war standards lined the stairwell — tattered flags and faded emblems of every unit that had fallen in the Great War.

  Dozens of them.

  Some he’d fought beside.

  Some he’d watched burn.

  Some had simply vanished without a trace, swallowed whole by the dark.

  He kept his eyes forward. Tried not to look. Tried not to let the weight of cloth and history drag at him.

  Silent steps.

  Silent flags.

  And all of them watching.

  Jim finally reached Plandorph’s door and knocked — hard, knuckles echoing down the corridor.

  There was a rustle, then a croaky, startled voice from inside.

  “What? What?”

  “It’s Jim,” he called. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Ah… Jim. Come in, come in.”

  Jim pushed the door open and stepped into the headmaster’s chambers.

  The place smelled stale, thick with the perfume of brandy and extinguished candles. A half-empty bottle sat tipped on the floor, its amber contents bleeding into the rug. Plandorph himself stood in a loose, flamboyant nightgown that had once been regal silk, but now just sagged off his stooped frame. His gut pushed soft against the fabric, his hair an unruly halo, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. He looked like a man caught halfway between dreaming and hungover, clutching at dignity with shaking hands.

  “What brings you up here, Jim?” Plandorph asked, rubbing his eyes as though that might wipe away the years. “You mentioned a… problem?”

  Jim took him in — the dressing gown, the bottle, the bleariness, the stench of last night’s drink clinging to him like cologne.

  “Aye, a problem.”

  “There’s a lad lying out near the paddock,” Jim said, voice flat and hard. “Dead. Been dead for hours. Stabbed.”

  “Oh dear,” Plandorph murmured, blinking like a man roused from a nap he didn’t want disturbed.

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  “Aye. And that’s not the worst of it.” Jim stepped further into the room, the floorboards creaking under his boots. “The wound was caused by an ember blade. You remember those, don’t you?”

  Plandorph paused, scratching absently at his chin. His eyes darted away.

  “Err… would you be so kind as to remind me? My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  Of course you don’t, Jim thought bitterly. Never seen a day on the front in your life.

  He bit the words back. For the sake of diplomacy.

  “It’s a CQB weapon,” he explained instead, his tone clipped. “Favoured by the Umbar. Leaves scorch marks on the flesh — wound’s deep, but the fire’s what puts a lad in shock. Less chance of him fighting back.”

  For a heartbeat, he saw it again — the trenches outside Brant’s Hollow, the night sky orange with fire. He’d watched men crumple under ember blades, their mouths open in silent screams, eyes wide, the heat searing them from the inside out before the blood even had time to spill. He still remembered the smell. Meat, not men.

  Jim blinked it away, jaw tightening.

  Plandorph swallowed, the colour draining slightly from his cheeks. Suddenly he looked a little more awake.

  “Ah, I can see how that’s a bit of a problem,” Plandorph said at last. His voice shifted, smoothing into that well-practised calm. He moved closer and draped an arm around Jim’s shoulder like an indulgent uncle humoring a fretful nephew.

  He began guiding him gently toward the door.

  “Now, let’s not go spreading panic,” he said, tone warm, fatherly, infuriatingly measured. “Keep this between us, yes? I’ll examine the poor lad’s wound myself, and later today I’ll address everyone — students and faculty — at assembly. How does that sound?”

  Jim clenched his jaw. Just nodded.

  “Do you want me there?” he asked quietly.

  “Ah, of course, Jim,” Plandorph replied with an easy smile, as though nothing at all was wrong. “I want you there.”

  He let go of Jim’s shoulder and drifted back into his chambers, still smiling that gentle, practised smile.

  The door clicked shut behind him.

  Jim turned on his heel. “Smarmy twat,” he muttered under his breath.

  He marched down the stairs, boots echoing off the stone like cannon fire.

  Don’t get riled up, you knackered fool. Stay calm… stay calm, he told himself. His knuckles whitened around the rail as he forced his steps steady.

  Halfway down the stairs, Jim stopped. His breath hissed between his teeth.

  The old war standards hung heavy on the wall — faded cloth, stitched in blood and memory. Names and emblems of men who never came home. He could almost hear them whispering, the fabric shifting as if stirred by voices only he could hear.

  His pulse climbed. Breath came short. Anger coiled tight in his chest like a snake ready to strike.

  With a sudden snarl, he drove his fist into the stone wall.

  Pain bloomed white-hot through his knuckles. He pulled his hand back — skin split, blood welling, knuckles bruised but not broken.

  “Stop it,” he growled under his breath. His voice echoed back at him, low and feral. “Work. I’ve got things to do.”

  He flexed his hand, hissed at the sting, then forced himself forward. Through the last steps. Through the great double doors. Out into the cold.

  The air slapped him clean — crisp, sharp enough to bite.

  That’s when he caught it. A flicker of movement on the path.

  The quiet, angry lad from the day before.

  The boy walked past with stiff, deliberate steps. No eye contact. No word. No acknowledgment. Just a shadow slipping by.

  But Jim noticed the smell.

  Not sweat. Not the usual stink of unwashed cloaks.

  Blood.

  A copper tang clung faintly to the air, enough to make Jim’s jaw clench.

  He stopped. Turned his head just enough to watch the student disappear through the academy doors.

  Hmm… one to watch, Jim thought, muscles tight, hand flexing again at his side.

  He lingered there, watching the doors long after they had shut. Then he shook the thought off and trudged on toward the gardens.

  The rest of the day passed in work. Clipping hedges. Clearing litter left strewn across the lawns from Choosing Day. Bits of ribbon, parchment scraps, half-eaten food. Mundane chores, grounding chores. All the while, Jim kept glancing at his watch. Counting down the hours, minutes, seconds until the assembly.

  Finally, the time came.

  He joined the tide of students as they flowed into the great hall, slipping into the current unnoticed. They filed into their seats, chatter fading to a hush. Up on the raised stage, Grand Magister Plandorph stood waiting, flanked by the heads of faculty.

  The old man spotted Jim through the crowd and gave a small, beckoning gesture. An invitation to join them on the stage.

  Jim’s stomach turned.

  Jim moved through the crowd and climbed the steps onto the stage. He took his place among the faculty, arms locked behind his back like a soldier on parade.

  Elmsley shot him a glance — all contempt and misplaced confidence.

  Jim smiled.

  Mouthed the word: “Prick.”

  Elmsley’s face flushed a quick, ugly red, but he said nothing. The man was too conscious of his stage.

  Plandorph stepped forward, the picture of solemnity. His voice carried, calm and heavy.

  “Under normal circumstances, this assembly would be for announcing the teams for this year’s Riordan Games. However…” He paused just long enough to let the silence bite. “It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you of the death of one of our most beloved prefects: Alkinan Bloos.”

  A ripple of gasps swept through the crowd. Students whispered, shifting in their seats. Jim stayed still at the back, arms crossed, jaw locked.

  “I know some of you are wondering how. How did he die?” Plandorph spread his hands, tone soft, almost fatherly. “He celebrated a little too exuberantly, it seems. Took a midnight walk through Oakfall Wood and… most likely impaled himself on a fallen branch.”

  Jim’s eyes widened. His breath caught sharp in his throat.

  Impaled? Fallen branch? You lying sack of shit…

  And in that moment, he wasn’t standing in an assembly hall anymore. He was back in the mud at Red Barrow, listening to some pampered colonel tell a line of grieving men that their comrades had “fallen to illness” — even as the stink of burned flesh still rolled off the trenches. Men cut down by ember blades, written off as fevers and accidents for the sake of clean reports.

  The same lie. Different lips.

  Jim blinked hard, dragging himself back to the present. His jaw ground so tight it ached.

  “And so,” Plandorph pressed on, voice smooth as polished glass, “a memorial will be held tomorrow at noon. Team lists for the Games will be posted outside your dormitories. You are dismissed.”

  The murmur of whispers rose again as the students filed out, heads bent together, speculation buzzing like flies.

  Jim didn’t move. Neither did the faculty, not until Plandorph turned with a gracious nod. They followed him offstage in a neat line, ducklings trailing their drake.

  Jim stormed forward, boots thudding against the wooden boards.

  “What the fuck was that?” he growled, low but sharp enough to cut.

  “You saw the wound. You saw the scorch marks. That was an ember blade.”

  Plandorph’s smile slipped away like a mask set aside. His eyes hardened, cold and flat.

  “It was an accident. End of.”

  And just like that, he turned and walked away, nightgown swishing faintly beneath his robes, as though the matter had been a spilled drink and nothing more.

  No one else even glanced at Jim. Not a word. Not a breath.

  He stood alone on the stage, staring out at the emptying hall, fists clenched.

  What the fuck is going on here?

  Jim watched the last of the students file out.

  The very last one — the boy who carried that copper tang of blood — turned just before slipping through the door. Their eyes met across the empty hall. No words. No gestures. Just that silent, cold look.

  Then the student was gone.

  Jim let out a slow, ragged breath. His chest felt tight, like a furnace stoked too hot. He needed to vent. To someone. To anyone.

  He jumped down from the stage, boots hitting the floor with a dull thud, and marched toward the paddock. Rage and confusion rattled inside his skull like bricks in a barrel, every thought slamming into the next, leaving nothing but noise.

  Every time he tried to frame it in words, only one came to mind:

  Why?

  Why lie? Why cover it up? Why now?

  By the time he reached Aualine’s pen, his fists were clenched, blood still crusted across his knuckles from the wall. His whole body thrummed with fury.

  Aualine noticed. Of course she noticed. The old dragon lumbered closer, pushing her scarred muzzle through the bars, brushing against his chest with a low, questioning rumble.

  “I’m okay, girl,” Jim muttered, running a hand along the warm ridges of her neck. The scales felt like stone under his calloused palm.

  “Why the fuck is he lying? Is he trying to save face? Denial? What the hell is he doing?”

  Aualine tilted her great head, one golden eye fixed on him.

  “I know I need to calm down,” Jim admitted, his voice rough. “But he’s gonna get these kids killed.”

  The dragon poked him gently with her nose.

  “I’m just the groundskeeper,” Jim said, half to himself, half to her. “There’s not much I can do.”

  She poked him again — harder this time, snorting hot breath into his coat.

  “You think so?” he asked, raising a brow at her.

  She licked his hand, tongue rasping over scarred skin, and let out a deep, thrumming purr that shook the bars.

  “Aye… fuck it,” Jim muttered, nodding to himself. “If those soft bastards won’t lift a finger, then I will.”

  She licked him again, softer now, a sound almost like approval rising from her chest.

  Jim patted her head, leaning into her warmth for a moment longer. “Thanks for the chat, girl. I needed this.”

  He turned to leave.

  Aualine whined after him, the low sound following him into the cold air like a plea.

  “I can’t spend all day talkin’ to you. I’ve got work to do.”

  Aualine snorted, a gust of hot breath rolling out like smoke from a bellows, then curled back into her bedding with a heavy rustle of wings. One golden eye lingered on him a moment longer before sliding shut.

  Jim stepped out of the paddock, boots crunching against the frosted ground. His breath clouded in front of him, sharp in the cold air.

  “If they ain’t gonna do anything…” he muttered, jaw set, fists tightening at his sides.

  He stared back at the academy — tall, proud, hollow.

  “Then fuck it,” he growled. “I will.”