The headmaster's office was a stuffy, cramped space that seemed to suffocate the air out of its occupants. The walls were lined with dusty old books and faded portraits. Twice in as many days, Lowell and Bart stood before Headmaster Byron's desk. The headmaster sat stewing in his own anger.

  This is a record, even for me. Lowell eyed the headmaster whose silence was an overused tactic, but he saw how it made Bart uncomfortable. For some, it was apparently a very effective technique.

  "Headmaster—" Lowell was cut off before he could attempt to diffuse the tension in the room.

  Headmaster Byron's face was red with anger, his eyes blazing with indignation. "You two are a menace!" he thundered, his voice echoing off the walls. Lowell wouldn't be surprised if half the academy had heard him. He burst from his seat, hands thrusting down on to the surface of the desk with a solid slam. "Your recklessness is an affront to the very concept of safety! You endangered not only yourselves but also innocent lives."

  Bart shifted uncomfortably under the headmaster's glare. Lowell suppressed his emotions, remaining stoic.

  "We weren't responsible for the appearance of the nightmare." Lowell wanted to say. They didn't put anyone at risk beyond themselves.

  "To make matters worse you damaged the quad and the training room. Both are completely unusable. And the statue of Irving Orus? Destroyed! Utterly and completely! Destroyed!"

  "Also not us." Lowell responded, sparring with Byron in his own thoughts. As Byron enumerated his grievances with them, some not even having anything to do with the most recent event, Lowell tuned him out.

  Byron continued to rant, his words tumbling out in a furious torrent. "And to think that I have to explain this incident to both the Allston and Oxford families! The shame! The scandal!" Bart's face flushed with embarrassment.

  As he spoke, Bart's eyes darted nervously around the room, as if searching for an escape route. Lowell, however, remained fixed on the headmaster, his gaze unyielding.

  Finally, Phileas Byron seemed to exhaust himself, his anger spent. He slumped back in his chair, his chest heaving with exertion.

  "Jehta, Baerghard, and Dr. Vex have all vouched for your quick action," he said. "If it weren't for you two, Helena Oxford would almost certainly have fallen prey to that nightmare." He sighed a sigh of defeat. "I suppose I must admit that your actions were... commendable."

  Bart's eyes ceased searching for an escape route and returned to the headmaster, widening in response the praise. He hadn't expected a compliment from the headmaster, no matter how brief or reluctant it was. He glanced at Lowell, who showed no reaction.

  Byron caught himself, clearing his throat and quickly regaining his stern tone. "But do not think that for one moment this excuses your behavior! You will still be cleaning the basement as originally planned."

  Bart raised his hand to say something, but the headmaster shot him an icy stare. "On second thought," Bart lowered his hand with an awkward laugh before turning to address Lowell. "It's you and me, buddy. We'll get that basement cleaned right up. Aye aye captain. Yes, sir—"

  "Master Allston." The headmaster's annoyance was growing.

  As they were dismissed from the office, Byron called after them, almost as if it was an afterthought.

  "And as of today, the board has decided you will be required to join a school club as further probation." A hint of sadistic giddiness crept into the words as Byron delivered the news. "They've already selected which club for each of you. Alesandra has your assignments waiting in the student lounge."

  Bart let out a groan as they left the office, while Lowell merely raised an eyebrow.

  "What's this about?" Bart's confusion was evident as he looked at Lowell, who offered no response.

  As they walked through the hallway connecting the headmaster's office to the student lounge, Bart launched into a half-hearted protest, his words drifting aimlessly into the air. He didn't really expect Lowell to respond or even care, but he felt compelled to voice his frustration nonetheless.

  "I mean, I've always been careful about which clubs I might consider joining." The words came out more whiny than persuasive. "I'm a popular guy, you know? And if I were to join one club but not another... that would be like playing favorites, right?" He shrugged, as if the weight of his own reasoning was crushing him.

  "By staying neutral, I can spread myself around and be available to everyone." His words trailed off into a pitiful mumble. "It's all about being fair and balanced. Joining one club would create an imbalance in my social life."

  Lowell listened to Bart's rambling with a detached expression, his eyes fixed on some point beyond the horizon. He didn't seem particularly interested in Bart's plight, but he nodded occasionally to keep the conversation going.

  Bart's protests dwindled away, his words lost in the stillness of the hallway. He glanced up at Lowell, expecting some sign of sympathy or understanding, but found none. The silence between them grew thicker, like a palpable fog that swallowed their footsteps.

  As they approached the student lounge, Lowell gestured idly to a group of girls who were hastily changing direction to avoid them. "Your reputation may already be taking a hit." The statement was detached and matter-of-fact.

  Bart knew Lowell was right. He sighed heavily, feeling a pang of frustration. "You know, you've brought me nothing but trouble since I met you," he muttered, though he couldn't help but acknowledge that wasn't entirely true.

  Lowell slowed his pace, and Bart quickly matched his step as they approached an intersection of corridors. Ahead, Helena rounded the bend with measured strides, lost in thought, or so it seemed. It wasn't until she nearly collided with them that her icy gaze snapped into focus.

  "Helena," Lowell greeted her simply, his tone neutral and lacking the concern he'd expressed the other day about her well-being.

  Helena paused, her eyes narrowing as if weighing his simple greeting against an unspoken grievances. "I thought it was you," she replied, the crispness of her tone betraying an underlying impatience. Her hand at her side already gripped into a fist, as if it were moderating a temper that was already flaring.

  Bart, caught off guard by the chill in her demeanor, offered a nervous wave. "Hi Helena, how are you doing?" His smile faltered under the weight of her gaze.

  Helena was inscrutable, her poise a cool mask of superiority that barely concealed the turmoil beneath. "I'm busy," she snapped, her words clipped. "Would you mind moving?" There was a dismissive arch of her brow that left no room for debate.

  Lowell's internal conflict flashed across his eyes. He felt a pull to assert himself, to challenge her dismissiveness, yet the contrast between the Helena he'd met long ago—confident and unyielding, a girl who never begged for forgiveness—and the one from the other day, broken and vulnerable, kept him silent. He stepped aside, his actions measured, though the spark of defiance in his action likely didn't escape her notice. The gesture cost him more than he cared to admit.

  As Helena passed, Bart couldn't help but mutter under his breath, "What's her problem?"

  The rumors had already been circulating. Students were blaming her for the incident with the nightmare as well as Professor Mille's death. Lowell felt a twinge of pity for her. Carrying that burden, bearing responsibility for the death of another person, was not something most of the students at Orus would likely ever understand.

  She's still the same Helena, he mused bitterly. Though he couldn't help but wonder: were her dismissive glances and sharp commands merely armor, defense against a world that saw her only through the lens of her family, not as her own person?

  Bart, oblivious to Lowell's pensive expression, chuckled and shook his head. "Man, she's something else." The tone was light but edged with confusion. "Why does she always act like she's better than the rest of us?"

  Lowell offered no answer. Bart's casual banter couldn't dispel the weight of history Lowell and Helena shared. But despite Helena's attempt to assert her superiority just now, Lowell could see the cracks beneath her armor, a sorrowful resilience born from too many attempts to meet unfair expectations.

  As they entered the student lounge, Bart's gaze scanned the room, searching for any sign of what club he would be forced to join. He hoped against hope that it wouldn't be something dull like the Debating Society or a Book Club.

  Bart's tone shifted from annoyance to amusement. "I never thought I'd say this, but... I'm actually starting to enjoy your company."

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  Lowell's eyebrow arched skeptically. "Is that so?"

  Bart chuckled, his grin spreading from ear to ear. "Yeah, I know it's weird, but you're not as bad as I thought you'd be." The words carried a mix of irony and genuine sentiment, leaving Lowell to wonder if Bart was being sarcastic or sincere.

  Alesandra stood at the front of the student lounge, stern and unyielding. The polished marble floor and softly lit aetheric fixtures highlighted her immaculate uniform—a crisp navy blazer paired with a neatly pressed skirt—and the clipboard clutched tightly in her hand. Yet every now and then, a flicker of something almost mischievous flashed in her eyes, as if she delighted in the theatricality of it all.

  Clearing her throat with a measured formality, she began in a crisp, well-modulated tone, addressing them by title and name as though reciting a well-rehearsed incantation. "Headmaster Byron has instructed me to deliver these to you," she announced. With a swift, practiced motion, she produced two sealed envelopes from the clipboard. "They contain your assignments," she continued, pausing just long enough to let the weight of her words sink in. "I'm sure you'll... dramatic pause... cross paths again."

  Bart leaned conspiratorially toward Lowell. "Did she just say 'dramatic pause'?" Amusement mingled with bewilderment in his tone.

  Lowell merely offered a slight nod, remaining impassive. Yet even as his eyes betrayed nothing, inside he was cataloguing every nuance of Alesandra's performance.

  At that moment, Alesandra's gaze, sharp and commanding, swept over Bart. For a heartbeat, her eyes narrowed, as though she had caught the mischievous spark in his voice. Bart, ever the smooth talker, launched into an attempt at charm. "Ms. Alesandra," he began, his tone a mixture of flirtatious levity and hopeful persuasion, "I know there's this business about us attending a student club and all, but with the basement cleaning and—"

  Her words cut him off like a well-timed chord. "Your assignments are in those envelopes, gentlemen," she stated firmly. "I suggest you open them and familiarize yourselves with your new responsibilities. You will attend the club meetings and participate fully, or face further disciplinary action." The crispness of her tone left no room for negotiation, and her slight, almost imperceptible smile hinted at a private satisfaction, perhaps in watching them squirm under her gaze.

  Bart's swallowed hard. A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine, as if her penetrating expression had reduced him to nothing more than a tiny, insignificant insect caught in a vast web of rules. "Yes, ma'am," he squeaked, his voice nearly drowned by the pounding of his heart. She's more terrifying than Floria, he thought silently.

  As they left the lounge, the atmosphere felt charged with both tension and reluctant humor. Bart turned to Lowell, his eyes filled with a desperate plea for understanding, an unspoken admission of his own trepidation. Unfortunately, Lowell's face remained stubbornly neutral, and he offered no comforting words.

  "This is going to be a long semester," Bart despaired.

  #

  They had opened the envelopes, and the paper within both listed the same classroom. Other club activities had already begun for the day, and they walked slowly to the room on the second floor of the academy. Due to yesterday's events, they were temporarily relieved from their cleaning duties in the basement.

  Lowell broke the silence. "Hey, Bart, what happened to my sword?"

  Bart hesitated before responding. "I tried to get it back for you."

  "Get it back?" Lowell slowed and looked at his companion. "Back from where?"

  "From Floria," Bart replied, his eyes fixed on some point beyond Lowell's shoulder. "She has it under close guard."

  "Floria?" Lowell repeated the name, his tone incredulous. "Who is Floria?"

  "My sister," Bart began, launching into a fumbled explanation. "The sword was delivered to the manor before I was able to intercept it, and Floria suspects something. With my father and mother away, I thought I might be able to get to it, but...but..." He trailed off, his words losing momentum.

  "Go on," Lowell urged him impatiently, though the words themselves were not harsh.

  Bart took a deep breath before continuing. "Well, you see, Floria has set up these elaborate traps and security measures around the manor to prevent me, or anyone really, from getting in or out. It's like a fortress! And she's always watching, always waiting for someone to make a move so she can catch them off guard."

  Lowell could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Traps?"

  Bart waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, you know, the usual stuff. Poison darts, tripwires, hidden blades... And that's not even counting the guards! Floria has hired a whole team of mercenaries to protect the manor. It's like trying to breach a Keeper's Vault!"

  "You expect me to believe all this?" Lowell shook his head.

  Bart nodded vigorously, his eyes shining with excitement. "Yes, yes, it's true! Floria is a master of security, and she won't let anyone get past her. Not even me, her sweet brother whom she adores."

  Lowell sighed, rubbing his temples in frustration. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Bart, but I'm not buying it."

  Before Bart could continue, the boys heard the deep, gruff greeting called out by Baerghard from across the hall. "Just who I was looking for!" Ahead of them, Lowell and Bart saw the heavy weapons instructor walking the hall, accompanied on either side by two other guilders. The crests on their uniforms were immediately recognizable to Bart. "I'd like to introduce you to Lyra," Baerghard gestured to the woman, "and Master Kael. Of the Houses of Steel and Word respectively."

  Lyra, of the House of Steel, wore a heavy woolen half-cape clasped with a simple but attractive pin bearing the House of Steel's crest. Her companion, Kael, wore finely detailed robes and exuded the aura of one born to wealth and power.

  As they drew closer, Bart's curiosity got the better of him. "Looking for us? Why?" he asked warily.

  "It seems that an unorthodox arcane training session was happening in the training grounds," Lyra explained. "While it was lucky that the rest of the club had been dismissed early, the loss of a skilled instructor and the near-death experience of Miss Helena Oxford have caused a stir. Although Helena appears to have been pushing herself, it's unlikely that her actions alone were enough to trigger a schism."

  Bart looked puzzled, his voice barely above a whisper as he directed his question at Lowell. "A schism?"

  Kael stepped forward, a trace of reproach in his eyes, mistaking Bart’s question for lack of education. "A schism," he started, annoyed that a guild academy student was asking such a question, "is an unstable rift in the fabric of reality, often caused by excessive use of magic or unbalanced energies."

  Bart knew what a schism was, but only in theory—the same way someone who had never seen snow might know what a blizzard is. But the appearance of one, especially inside Dahncrest, meant that a threat he'd always thought was far removed from his life had now manifested at his school.

  Master Kael spent the next few minutes lecturing the boys on the nature of schisms, speaking with the measured cadence of a seasoned instructor.

  Schisms, as Master Kael continued to explain, were catastrophic magical events that occurred when the delicate balance between magic and reality was disrupted. They were storms of violent magical energies that tore apart the very tapestry of reality, revealing a gaping rift that connected the Known World to one of an infinite number of realms in the Mists. Schisms could occur anywhere, from bustling guild-cities to remote wilderness areas, and they always seemed to appear suddenly and with little warning.

  When a schism occurred, the air around it began to distort and ripple, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a thrown stone. The sky darkened, as if night had fallen prematurely, and the wind picked up, carrying with it strange, otherworldly scents. The earth itself seemed to shudder, as if the very foundations of reality were trembling beneath one's feet. And then, with a snapping sound, reality broke. The tear formed, fed and sustained by ambient aether in the air. Some schisms were so brief that they collapsed in upon themselves almost immediately. Others were rifts that drew the attention of dangerous creatures, nightmares: twisted, mutated, things that defied explanation, born from the raw energy of the void.

  The consequences of a schism were dire. The local environment was ravaged, with buildings crumbling and trees uprooted as if by some unseen force. The air grew so charged with magical energies that it became difficult for even the most skilled spellcasters to navigate. And at the heart of the schism lay a vortex, a swirling whirlpool of power that drew everything towards it like a magnet. Those who ventured too close risked being pulled through the event horizon to the otherside, lost to the Mists forever.

  Throughout the Known World, especially in the Guild Marches, people had learned to fear and respect these rifts. They knew that even the smallest schism could have far-reaching consequences, threatening the stability of entire regions. Most guild-cities, like Dahncrest, had strategies for dealing with them. From sending out specialized teams to contain the energy and close the schism altogether, to constructing wards that reduced the likelihood of a schism forming. But despite their best efforts, schisms continued to appear, a constant reminder of the fragile balance between magic and reality.

  If she had let him, Lyra knew Kael would have continued indefinitely on his lecture. She interrupted her companion with a gentle touch on his arm, then gestured to the pendant that Lowell wore around his neck. "That's black cinnabar, isn't it?" she asked, then added, "a bloodstone?" using the more common name of the gemstone.

  Lowell hesitated before responding, his voice tinged with sadness. "It was my mother's... one of the last possessions I have that reminds me of my family."

  Kael's eyes seemed to bore into Lowell's very soul as he spoke, his words carrying an immense gravitas that was almost palpable. "Lowell Brandt," his voice was slow and measured, as if it were cataloging and retrieving details from a long buried report. "I see now. It makes more sense. You're Lorelei Brandt's son?"

  Lowell nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as if to deflect the attention. Outside of the Black Boars and Gol, he didn't expect anyone to know who his mother was.

  "Jehk was a tragedy." Kael shook his head sorrowfully. "It was unavoidable. What the guilds thought was a simple nest turned out to be a massive hive of nightmares spanning a network of tunnels and caves under the village." He paused, his eyes lingering on Lowell's face before turning back to Bart.

  "No way!" Bart was shocked. He knew of nests, and he knew that if a nest of nightmares was left alone for too long in an area with abundant food sources, the nest could grow to a hive, but he'd never heard of a hive spanning the size of a village before. How did Lowell and his family connect to this tale of tragedy?

  Kael placed a gentle hand on Lowell's shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. "Your parents fought well to protect your home, I hope you know that," he said, his words, though they attempted to comfort and reassure Lowell, felt hollow to the young man.

  "Kael..." Lyra spoke up softly, her voice a gentle reminder to stay on topic.

  Kael nodded, his eyes flicking to Lyra and then back to the boys. "My apologies, Master Brandt," he said, his tone apologetic. "While we would like to speak with you and Master Allston about the other day... we actually have other matters we must attend to this afternoon."

  Lyra smiled, her expression warm and courteous. "Thank you for introducing us, Instructor Baerghard."

  As they departed, Baerghard offered to walk with them. The three adults said their farewells to Lowell and Bart, who stood in silence watching them leave.

  Lowell's hand instinctively went to the pendant at his throat, Kael's words settling over him like a shroud. The past had a way of finding him, no matter how far he tried to run from it.