Move where?

The corridors of the Academy were quieter than usual, but that quiet pressed on Lucien like a physical weight. Even the usual creaks of the old wood sounded sinister, stretched thin by the lingering smoke that had invaded every corner of the building. 

Every flicker of torchlight seemed to twist across the stone walls like living fingers, probing for weaknesses, searching for someone—something—to watch.

Fenris padded silently at his side, the wolf cub’s paws making no sound on the cold stone. Lucien appreciated the gesture, though he could not shake the sensation that something waited just beyond sight. Something patient. Something deliberate.

Arian’s voice broke the silence, low and precise. “Lucien.”

He froze where he stood. Sylveira’s eyes reflected torchlight, tail swishing like a pendulum measuring tension. “We need to move. Now,” Arian said, and the command left no room for argument.

Lucien hesitated, glancing at the windows lining the hallway. Gray light filtered through, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. “Move… where?”

“Anywhere but here,” Arian replied sharply. He didn’t offer explanation, only the quiet insistence of authority. Lucien felt the impulse to obey before questioning.

Behind them, Toren groaned, leaning on Darius for support. “I feel like a roasted marshmallow after that fire,” he muttered, voice rough. Blaze hovered over his shoulder, sparks fizzing nervously from its scales, as if mocking Toren’s complaint. “Where are we even going?”

“Somewhere with walls that don’t scream danger,” Arian said. He moved ahead, Sylveira padding beside him like a lethal shadow given form.

Lucien followed, Fenris growling softly at the echo of distant footsteps that were not theirs. Each step drew his nerves tighter, each breath filled with the faintest taste of ash and magic.

---

They rounded the corner and stopped abruptly. A door at the end of the hallway stood slightly ajar, though the heavy iron frame should have been sealed. A faint golden glow spilled into the corridor, flickering across the walls like liquid fire.

“Headmaster’s office,” Lucien whispered. He froze, sensing an almost imperceptible hum of energy—something unfamiliar, something wrong.

“Exactly,” Arian said, stepping closer, Sylveira low and tense beside him. “And whatever Aldwyn was planning last night… might not be over.”

Lucien’s stomach twisted. “We shouldn’t go in,” he murmured. Fenris bristled, tail lashing. The wolf’s instincts screamed at him to turn back, yet something—a mixture of curiosity, fear, and stubbornness—pushed him forward.

Toren leaned in, voice trembling. “Or… we could just peek. You know, a little peek never hurt anyone. Probably.”

“Probably?” Lucien groaned, exasperated. “Toren, last night—”

“—was an accident,” Toren finished, voice trailing off. “A really suspicious accident.”

Arian ignored both of them. He pressed a hand to the doorframe, feeling the residual magic thrumming faintly beneath his touch. His eyes narrowed. “It’s sealed. But not completely. Someone’s been… tampering.”

Lucien swallowed hard. Fenris growled again. Lucien felt it too—a tug at the edges of his awareness, the same subtle pressure that had whispered danger in the courtyard.

He glanced at Arian. “Do we… check?”

Arian’s jaw tightened. “We don’t have a choice. Not if we want to understand what’s coming.”

---

Inside, the office was unnervingly calm. The firelight from the corridor reflected off polished mahogany, highlighting rows of books, vials, and artifacts that seemed to hum quietly with latent energy. At the center, the Headmaster’s desk gleamed, untouched by the chaos of last night.

But something hovered in the air—an almost imperceptible shimmer, like a heatwave trapped in stillness. Lucien felt it prickling across his skin.

Fenris stiffened, ears flat. The cub’s growl rose a notch, warning of invisible teeth. Lucien pressed a hand against the wolf, murmuring, “It’s okay, Fen. You've got me.”

A movement at the far corner caught Lucien’s eye. A figure flickered, almost like a shadow, before solidifying into something unmistakable. Aldwyn.

He was calm. Too calm. His expression was unreadable, a mask of patience and calculation. His eyes, however, betrayed a spark of interest—a predator measuring curiosity.

“You’re persistent,” Aldwyn said softly, stepping forward. “I wondered how long it would take for you to notice.”

Lucien’s heart thudded. “What… what are you doing here?”

Aldwyn smiled faintly, tilting his head. “Observing. Testing. Protecting. All in equal measure. Some of these measures… require discretion.”

Arian’s voice cut through the tension like steel. “Discretion or manipulation?” His hand hovered near Sylveira, ready.

“Depends on who you ask,” Aldwyn said smoothly, unbothered. He moved closer, each step deliberate. “Lucien, your bond is… unique. That wolf of yours—he defies convention. He chooses loyalty over command. That’s rare. Valuable. However dangerous, if mishandled.”

Lucien’s chest tightened. “Fenris isn’t some tool!”

Aldwyn’s gaze sharpened. “He isn’t. Precisely why you worry, isn’t it? One day, your choices—or your failures—could cost you more than embarrassment in a classroom.”

Fenris barked sharply, leaping to Lucien’s side. His fur bristled like a shield.

Lucien pressed a hand against the wolf, murmuring, “It’s okay, Fen. I’ve got you.”

Aldwyn studied them for a long moment, as if weighing the invisible scales of their bond. Finally, he smiled thinly.

“Keep him close,” Aldwyn said. “You’ll need him. Sooner than you think.”

And just as silently as he had appeared, Aldwyn stepped back, dissolving into a shimmer of light that left only a faint trace of his presence lingering in the room.

---

Lucien exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to his chest. Fenris circled him once, then padded toward the door, tail low but ears alert.

Arian was silent, his expression unreadable. “He’s testing you,” he said finally. “Or warning. Maybe both.”

Toren whimpered. “Testing? Warning? Can we get a manual for this? Because last night… and now this… I feel like we’re in a dungeon crawler with invisible bosses.”

Blaze hovered over Toren’s shoulder, sparks fizzling nervously. “Not funny,” Arian snapped, voice sharp. “Pay attention.”

Lucien nodded, swallowing hard. His mind churned with questions, none of them easy. Aldwyn’s warning burned in his chest like fire, faint yet relentless: Sooner than you think.

---

The day dragged onward, each lesson heavier than the last. Lucien struggled to concentrate, Fenris refusing to leave his side. Even Professor Rhylas seemed sharper than usual, each instruction layered with hidden meaning that Lucien could sense but not fully decipher.

When the final bell rang, the Academy halls emptied faster than usual, leaving only shadows and the faint whisper of wind against stone. Lucien lingered, Fenris sniffing along the floor, alert to every shift of air.

Arian approached quietly, Sylveira padding behind him. “We need to leave. There’s more than just classrooms at risk now.”

“Leave?” Lucien asked. “Where? The city?”

“No,” Arian said, voice low. “The Academy itself. Aldwyn—or whatever he serves—has eyes everywhere. He didn’t test you yesterday just for amusement.”

Lucien’s stomach twisted. “You think… someone might attack?”

Arian’s golden eyes glimmered. “I know. The question is… when. And if you’re ready.”

---

As they made their way toward the hidden corridors beneath the Academy, Lucien felt Fenris press closer, a reminder that some bonds were unshakable. He didn’t feel safer—he never felt safe—but he felt… less alone.

The shadows stretched long across the stone walls, carrying secrets Lucien wasn’t yet ready to face. But he knew this: the fire, the testing, Aldwyn’s warning—it was only the beginning.

And whatever came next, he would face it with Fenris at his side, and the friends still in the fight, and a growing awareness that survival depended on more than strength. It depended on trust, cunning, and choices that would test them all in ways they couldn’t yet imagine.

The halls whispered again, and Lucien realized that for the first time, he wasn’t sure who—or what—he could trust.

Not even himself.

•••