Assistant Verent

“…you’re not eating that,” Toren said, wrinkling his nose at Lucien’s untouched bowl of porridge.

Lucien blinked down at it, spoon still in his hand. “I—wasn’t hungry.”

“Not hungry?” Toren leaned across the table, stage-whispering as though sharing scandal. “Do my eyes deceive me? The brooding prince survives on angst alone.”

Blaze crackled on his shoulder in sharp agreement, tossing a tiny spark into the air.

“Don’t mock him,” Arian said flatly, though his own plate was scraped clean. He spoke without looking up, golden eyes focused on the edge of his blade as he wiped it with a cloth.

“I’m not mocking, I’m—” Toren gestured vaguely, nearly knocking over his cup. “—motivating. There’s a difference.”

“There isn’t,” Caelith murmured, not looking up from his journal. His quill scratched softly against the page, steady and precise.

“You’re writing again?” Toren groaned. “What, cataloguing my breakfast habits? ‘The noble Toren prefers honey rolls, three at minimum, consumed with gusto—’”

Caelith’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly. “Two. And no gusto.”

Lucien almost smiled at that, but the knot in his chest didn’t loosen. He stirred the porridge without eating, eyes flicking across the hall. Students clustered in groups, their laughter too loud, too bright. The fire had left its mark—whispers traveled faster now, fear clinging to corners no cleaning spell could touch.

Darius followed his gaze. “Ignore them,” he said quietly, though his broad shoulders were tense, jaw tight. His stag waited just outside the door, antlers glowing faintly through the crack. “They don’t know what we saw.”

“They know enough,” Lucien murmured. His spoon clinked against the bowl as he set it down. “They know I’m—”

“Don’t,” Arian cut him off, voice sharp. “Don’t start with that.”

Lucien looked up, startled. Arian’s eyes were on him now, hard and unflinching.

“I’m just saying—”

“You’re not saying it,” Arian snapped. “You’re not bait. You’re not cursed. You’re not—whatever you think you are. You’re Lucien. That’s it. That’s enough.”

The table went quiet. Even Toren didn’t joke.

Lucien swallowed hard, words sticking in his throat. Fenris pressed against his leg under the table, golden eyes watching him steadily.

Finally Toren cleared his throat. “Well. That was… intense.” He raised his cup half-heartedly. “Here’s to Lucien, then. Not bait, not cursed. Just tragically handsome and chronically broody.”

Darius rolled his eyes. Caelith sighed. Arian muttered something under his breath, but the sharp edge had dulled.

And Lucien—Lucien breathed a little easier.

---

The ease lasted only minutes.

A shadow fell across their table, and the five of them looked up in unison. Standing there was Headmaster's Assistant Verent, tall and austere, robes cut in sharp lines that made his presence impossible to ignore. His hawk companion perched silently on his arm, its black eyes gleaming.

“You’re to come with me,” Verent said simply.

Toren raised his brows. “Is this about the time I allegedly stole pies from the kitchens? Because, one, that was weeks ago, and two, they were cooling on the windowsill. Which is practically an invitation.”

“Not pies,” Verent said coolly. “The tunnels.”

The word sliced the air. Lucien felt Fenris stiffen against his leg.

“Now,” Verent added, already turning toward the hall doors.

Darius pushed away from the table without a word. Arian rose quickly, hand brushing the hilt of his blade. Caelith shut his journal with a decisive snap. Toren groaned but followed.

Lucien hesitated only a breath before standing too, Fenris trotting at his heels. Every step toward the Headmaster’s office felt heavier.

---

The office was lined wall-to-wall with shelves of tomes. A fire burned low in the hearth, its light painting the carved stone walls in muted gold. Verent gestured for them to sit on the long bench opposite the great oak desk.

The Headmaster himself was absent. Only Verent remained, his hawk perched silently on the chair-back. Its gaze fixed on Lucien.

“You went into restricted ground last night,” Verent began, folding his hands. His voice was calm, but beneath it simmered steel. “You encountered wards older than this Academy, and when you emerged, you carried whispers of sabotage and war. Explain.”

The five exchanged glances.

“Which part?” Toren asked lightly. “The creepy runes, the attempted murder, or the general sense of impending doom?”

Arian shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

Darius leaned forward, voice steady. “We followed signs of tampering after the fire. The trail led us underground. What we found wasn’t sabotage. It was deliberate.”

“Deliberate how?” Verent asked.

Darius answered, his tone measured. “The runes weren’t just warnings. They were reacting—to Fenris, specifically. To Lucien’s bond. And there were figures there. Watching.”

Verent’s gaze sharpened on Lucien. “And what did you feel?”

Lucien’s throat tightened. He wished he had a neat, academic answer like Caelith. But the memory rose too vividly—the sensation of something pulling at Fenris, unraveling thread by thread. He forced himself to speak.

“It wasn’t force,” he said slowly. “It wasn't.... violence. It was like they were trying to undo him. To take him apart from the inside out.”

The hawk ruffled its feathers. Verent was silent a long moment. Then he said, “You understand what this means.”

Toren raised a hand. “I’m voting we don’t understand. Because every time someone says that, we end up nearly dead.”

But Verent ignored him, eyes still locked on Lucien. “Someone is targeting you. Not for who you are, but for what you carry.”

The words echoed Caelith’s from last night. Lucien’s stomach lurched. Fenris pressed closer.

“So what do we do?” Darius asked, his tone edged with impatience.

Verent stood. His hawk spread its wings, the air rippling faintly with magic. “We guard the gates. We search for signs of infiltration. And you—” His gaze landed heavy on Lucien. “You do not leave this Academy without escort.”

Lucien’s heart sank. “I can’t just—”

“You can,” Verent said, voice like stone. “And you will. You are no longer a student only. You are a target. Act like it.”

---

Back in the courtyard, the air was sharper, colder. Students streamed past them, laughing, carefree. None of them knew the weight that now pressed against Lucien’s chest.

“Well,” Toren said finally, throwing his arms wide. “That was uplifting. Nothing like being told your best friend is basically a walking bullseye.”

“Shut up, Toren,” Arian muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

“I’m serious!” Toren said, jogging to keep up with the others. “If he’s a target, then so are we. Do you know how much I like not being dead? Very much. Top of the list. And now apparently my new hobby is—what’s the phrase?—oh yes, dying gloriously beside Lucien.”

Darius didn’t slow his stride. “Then you’d better learn how to fight better.”

“Ouch,” Toren said, pressing a hand to his heart. “Cruel, but fair.”

Lucien trailed slightly behind, Fenris at his heels. He felt their voices around him, sharp, joking, steady—but all of it was blurred by the memory of Verent’s eyes, of his words. You are a target.

He stumbled to a stop.

The others turned back.

“Lucien?” Arian’s voice was wary, too sharp.

Lucien swallowed hard. “What if… what if they’re right? What if I make it worse, just by being here?”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant bell.

Then Arian crossed back to him in three strides, gripping his shoulder hard enough it almost hurt. “Listen to me. You’re not leaving us. You understand? Not now, not ever. If they want you, they’ll go through all of us first.”

Lucien stared at him, throat tight. “But—”

“No,” Arian said, firm as iron. His grip tightened, then softened just slightly. “You’re not alone. Don’t try to be.”

Caelith stepped up beside them, voice quiet but sure. “He’s right. If they’re unraveling bonds, then they’re unraveling all of us. This isn’t about you, Lucien. It’s about what you represent.”

“Which is?” Toren asked, frowning.

Caelith’s gaze flicked toward Fenris. “Change. Something they can’t control.”

The weight of that hung heavy in the air.

Finally Darius broke it, his tone clipped. “Then we train harder. We prepare. And when they come again, we don’t just survive. We strike back.”

For once, Toren didn’t argue.

Lucien looked down at Fenris, who pressed his head firmly into Lucien’s hand as though to echo the words. The wolf cub’s warmth spread through his skin, steady, grounding.

Maybe Arian was right. Maybe Caelith too. He wasn’t just bait. He wasn’t alone.

He lifted his head, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “Then we’ll face them. Together.”

Fenris’ tail thumped softly against the cobblestones.

And though the shadows of the gates loomed dark in the distance, for the first time that morning, Lucien didn’t feel like they would swallow him whole.

Fen what should we do? I don't want them to be in danger because of me.

•••