"His presence just vanished," an Acolyte reported, head bowed so low his hood brushed his chest.
Abraham hummed softly, his gaze fixed on the silhouette of the distant castle. Pale moonlight clung to its spires like frost.
"He teleported away, I assume?" he asked, fingers interlaced behind his back.
"There is no other explanation," the Acolyte replied. "One moment his signature was steady. The next—gone. If he is still alive, teleportation is the only method that fits."
An Acolyte had been assigned solely to Adrian. Not to watch, not to intervene—only to track.
Days ago, when Adrian had left the Academy alongside the first-ranked Warden, the tracking mark had been planted. A delicate weave of magic, invisible and persistent, allowing the caster to pinpoint Adrian's exact location so long as he remained within range. Until moments ago, that mark had burned steadily.
And then it had gone cold.
