Chapter 70 – The Hunt
A week had passed since the mind-meld experiment, and the consequences of Ezra and Marcel’s undertaking still echoed in silence between them. They hadn’t breathed a word to anyone, not out of secrecy, but out of uncertainty.
Before they revealed their findings, they had to understand what it meant. What they had become. In the days that followed, neither dared speak of it aloud, but both felt the change. Something foundational had shifted, subtly but irrevocably, as though they had stumbled upon a door not meant to be opened and now found themselves unable to forget what lay beyond.
Ezra woke each morning with a restless pulse in his limbs, as if some ghost of perfect motion still resided within his flesh, urging him to move with unnatural precision. His senses were sharper, his reflexes tighter. It wasn’t just memory, it was a kind of hunger. His body yearned to return to that state of shared thought, split instinct, unified will. As if, having touched that level of synergy, it could no longer bear mediocrity. Marcel, too, wore the change like a second skin. He spoke more carefully now, as if aware of two minds at once, his own and the echo of Ezra’s presence.
The air on campus had turned colder, frost teasing the edges of the flagstones, painting the corners of windows in pale breath. A thin mist clung to the walkways, coiling between footfalls and wafting over the low walls of the academy’s inner courtyard.
Overhead, the sky loomed a flat silver, pregnant with snow but too stubborn to yield. Copperwood trees—ancient, towering things—shivered in the wind, their remaining leaves rustling like dry whispers. The academy grounds had quieted, not from absence, but from anticipation. Something was coming.
A tolling bell cut through the morning air, sharp and solemn. It was not the casual chime of class change or meal call. This bell rang only twice a year: once for the Ascension Trials, and once… for the Hunt.
***
Ezra stood leaning against one of the weatherworn columns lining the amphitheatre courtyard, arms crossed, face unreadable. Marcel stood beside him, a coin dancing between his fingers in a steady rhythm, its clinks soft beneath the rising murmur of voices.
Students gathered in waves, drawn by instinct and curiosity. Rumours buzzed like hornets among them, new challenges, upgraded dangers, changed terrain. Whispers of beasts pulled from the depths of the Aranian mountains, and traps crafted by the best mechanics in the city. But no one knew the truth. That was always the point.
“You think they’ll switch locations this year?” Marcel asked, not looking up from his coin.
Ezra’s gaze tracked a falling leaf until it landed at his feet. “Maybe. Last year’s labyrinth was too easy. They won’t make that mistake again.”
“I heard someone cracked it in an hour,” Marcel replied. “They’re probably still embarrassed.”
“They should be.” Ezra’s voice was calm, but inside his thoughts moved like clockwork. The Hunt was more than a game. It was a crucible. Power meant little if you didn’t know when to hide, when to strike, when to run.
A sudden hush swept the courtyard as Headmistress Elowen ascended the marble dais. Her appearance was enough to silence even the boldest whispers. Tall, imperious, and carved from some ancient stone of wisdom, she wore the deep blue robes of the High Magus. Her staff, silverwood embossed with gemstones, throbbed with a dim glow, like the heartbeat of something not quite human.
“Students,” she announced, her voice slicing through the mist and still air without enchantment. “As tradition dictates, the first frost of the season marks the beginning of the Hunt. By sundown tomorrow, all eligible Third-Year students will report to the Obsidian Gate.”
Gasps and exclamations rippled through the crowd. Students exchanged glances, some gleeful, others pale. The usual preparation week had been denied. This would be a trial of instinct and inherent ability.
After the crowd of anxious students had quieted, she continued.
Second years will be meeting by the pearl gardens. First years will be unable to participate this year, due to... unfortunate circumstances”
As she said this, the headmistress made a point to clearly emphasise the inability of the first years to participate.
“That’s early,” Ezra murmured. “No prep time.”
“Exactly how they want it,” Marcel said. “See who’s always ready.”
“The rules remain unchanged,” Elowen continued. “Once you pass through the gate, you are alone. No contact with staff. No external assistance. From the moment the seal closes, the trial begins. Survive. Seek. Conquer. The last remaining unmarked contender shall be named Victor.”
Ezra’s brow furrowed. Unmarked. So the tagging mechanic remained. Illusory crest-marks, used to signal defeat. A cruel but effective method. One mistake, and you were out. One moment of hesitation, and your mark would shine like a brand on your chest.
“And this year,” Elowen said, “the Victor will receive an invitation to the government’s exclusive soldier program in ‘The Citadel’.”
Gasps turned into stunned silence.
“The government?” Marcel whispered. “What would they want with our school? I know it’s a good academy, but it’s nowhere near the best in the country.”
The Citadel was legend. It was where the arcane elite honed their craft, where world-shaping policies were drafted, where magic advanced by decades in weeks. An invitation there wasn’t just honour, it was a ticket to power, and to legacy. The thought of stepping foot into those hallowed halls sent a quiet chill down Ezra’s spine.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Elowen let the silence settle before continuing. “This year’s Hunt will take place in the Shadowgrove. You will face real, danger class considerable and above beasts, traps of top tier design, and the forest itself. Choose your paths wisely. The Grove remembers blood.”
With a final tap of her staff, she turned and swept away, leaving only stunned silence in her wake.
Then, chaos.
Students exploded into motion, rushing toward friends, whispering strategies, forging and breaking alliances before the first step had been taken. Some pledged unity. Others marked their enemies with a glance. The academy had become a chessboard, every conversation a move.
Ezra and Marcel remained still amid the storm.
“The Shadowgrove,” Ezra said softly. “They’ve turned it into a trial ground.”
“It was already one,” Marcel replied. “Now they’ve just stopped pretending.”
“Temporary alliances permitted,” Ezra said, glancing sideways. “Betrayals expected.”
Marcel smiled, sharp and knowing. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“We stick together,” Ezra said. “Until the end.”
“And when it’s just us?” Marcel’s grin widened.
Ezra met his gaze. “Then we’ll see who the forest favours.”
Their shared look was not one of rivalry, but of promise. Of escalation. They had touched the edge of something forbidden. Now, it was time to wield it.
“Do you think if w3e melded we could both win?” Marcel asked.
“Best to keep that to ourselves for now. A last resort, remember?”
“Yea, I guess. But still, this could be some great training. Just think about it, alright?”
Ezra nodded, looking around at the other students. The crowd thinned as students raced to fill out supply requisitions, stake out strategy zones, and lay out their immediate plans. Others simply panicked, realizing how little time they had.
“Let’s get ready,” Ezra said, motioning toward the equipment booths beneath a canvas awning. “If we’re going into the Grove, we’re going in as hunters.”
Marcel flipped his coin one final time and caught it. “Let’s show them what happens when two minds move as one.”
Ezra’s gaze drifted to the Obsidian Gate. An ancient thing, black stone traced with silver glyphs, half-swallowed by ivy. It pulsed faintly now, as if the forest beyond it already stirred, hungry for the next offering.
And Ezra, for the first time in a long while, felt something deep in his chest. Not fear. Not anxiety.
Anticipation.
***
The scent of old parchment and steel filled the requisition hall. Dozens of students bustled inside, arguing with attendants, poring over supply crates, or scribbling out last-minute strategies on floating chalkboards. The air crackled with urgency, like the static before a storm.
Ezra moved through the chaos like a ghost. Focused. Unbothered. He wove between students with quiet efficiency, barely sparing them a glance. Every item he selected was intentional: smoke phials, shadow-drenched oil, noise dampeners. His mind replayed Elowen’s words over and over.
The Grove remembers blood.
“Ez.” Marcel caught up to him with a small pouch in hand, dropping it into Ezra’s open palm. “Tag Capsules. I made them by transferring some essence into them. Of course it wasn’t cheap, I had to borrow an infuser. Turns out that Izzy has some cool shit in the back. I’d say they're best for marking trails and enemies.”
Ezra nodded, weighing the pouch. “How’d you get these? They’re restricted.”
“Are you stupid,” Marcel said with a crooked grin. “I quite literally just told you that I made them myself. And I’d argue they’re better than the shit you can get on the market anyway. You know, since i didn’t skimp on the magic content.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.” Ezra raised a brow.
Marcel smirked. “Have a little faith, I’m not as useless as I look. Just ask Izzy.”
“Who’s Izzy?” Ezra replied in shock.
“You’ve met her... The weaponsmith.”
“NO” Ezra said, the shock evident on his face.
“Nah. I’ve just been helping out around the smith. Why d’you think I’ve been so busy recently?”
“I dunno. I assumed you were just being lazy.”
“I should really try improving my public image, hey.” Marcel said with a sigh.
“Might be a good idea in case you ever plan on getting a girlfriend.”
“I didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Ezra replied confused.
“You’ll never guess,” Marcel took a pause before saying, “Me and Izzy.”
Ezra was so flabbergasted that he didn’t reply. Instead, he decided to move on from the subject, and pretend he didn’t hear that.
They stepped out of the hall together and found a quieter place, an alcove between two tower spires overlooking the western training fields. The world below moved in miniature: students sprinting between errands, instructors levitating crates of gear, guardians stalking along the perimeter like silent sentinels. All of it faded under the weight of what tomorrow would bring.
“You still sure about partnering?” Ezra asked, voice quiet.
“More than ever.”
“You’ll have to hold back,” Ezra said. “If we face others. Let me handle the final mark.”
“Sure, whatever you want. I don’t need The Citadel.”
Ezra tilted his head, studying him. “Why help me, then?”
Marcel paused, his coin flashing between his knuckles. “Because if you rise, I rise. I don’t need the title. I just want to change something. And I think you will, though then again, I’d make a pretty sick high-mage. Either way, it’s all in the last fight, not in what comes before. Take all the final hits you want.”
Ezra looked away, jaw tight. That strange pull between them stirred again, the remnants of the meld, or something more? Sometimes he could feel Marcel’s mood before he spoke. Sense his intention in the way his hand twitched or his eyes narrowed. Their minds hadn’t fully separated, not really.
“You still hearing me sometimes?” Ezra asked, suddenly.
Marcel’s fingers paused. “Yeah. Faintly. Like… echoes. Nothing useful though. You?”
Ezra nodded once. “Same.”
They didn’t speak for a while. The cold wind brushed past them, carrying with it the scent of frost and pine, of earth waiting beneath winter’s sleep. Somewhere beyond the mountains, the Shadowgrove loomed, ancient and silent. Tomorrow, it would wake.
They exchanged a glance, and in it was something unspoken, mutual respect, and a touch of fear. Not of the Hunt. Of themselves. Of what they might become.
Ezra turned, cloak snapping behind him as he strode off, already planning.
Marcel lingered a moment, watching the horizon darken with clouds. A storm was coming, real and metaphorical. And he was afraid.
More than he had ever been before.