The late afternoon sun spilled gold across the clearing, bathing the Academy's outer field in dappled warmth. Wind stirred the long grass and tugged at the students' cloaks as they stood in a loose semicircle around the wiry man in patched robes.
He smelled of pine and smoke, as if the forest itself had claimed him.
"Instructor Clarence. Survival," he announced, his voice rough as gravel. "I teach you how not to die when left in the wilds."
A few nervous chuckles rippled through the students. Elara, however, grinned.
Finally.
This was her world. Her chance to shine.
She shifted her pack on her shoulder, excitement fizzing through her chest. She had grown up sleeping under the stars, navigating forests by instinct, foraging with hands calloused by nettle and bramble. This was not like potion making or the delicate runes of spellcraft. This was something she could do.
"Tonight," Clarence continued, pacing in front of them like a prowling wolf, "you will survive the night outside these walls. No comforts. No magic. No alarms or wards. You will rely on what you know, what I've taught, and what you've learned in your pathetic city-bred lives."
He gestured toward the line of trees.
"Go. You have two hours to make camp before nightfall. Choose poorly, and nature will teach you why."
"We're sleeping outside?" Fig groaned from behind Elara, dragging his feet. "You mean... on the ground? With dirt? And bugs? Gods above, I knew this class would kill me."
Elara turned to him, grinning. "You might enjoy it."
"I enjoy feather beds and central heating. This," he waved vaguely toward the woods, "this is a horror show."
But she was already moving.
Elara walked with confidence into the woods, letting the familiar rustle of leaves and cool earth beneath her boots ground her. She chose a slight incline with natural drainage, a thicket nearby for cover, and enough open space to start a fire safely.
Her hands worked without hesitation—stripping bark for tinder, arranging stones in a fire ring, checking for dry branches. Fig eventually stumbled up beside her, dragging his feet and swatting imaginary insects.
"I followed you because you're freakishly good at this," he muttered, slumping onto a nearby log. "But if a squirrel so much as looks at me, I swear I'll scream."
"Squirrels are the least of your worries," Elara said lightly, tossing him a half-rotted stick. "That won't burn well. Help me find something dry."
The night crept in slow and amber. Their fire crackled to life, casting long flickering shadows over their little clearing. A few other students were visible through the trees, distant dots of orange light. Instructor Clarence occasionally prowled through, nodding silently or grunting in vague approval.
Elara leaned back on her elbows, sighing with deep contentment. For the first time since arriving at the Academy, she felt entirely herself. This wasn't about books or bloodlines. It was about instinct. Endurance. Survival.
Fig dozed with his head tilted against his pack, snoring softly.
And then—
She felt it.
A twinge at the back of her neck. A cold whisper, prickling along her spine.
Eyes.
Watching.
She sat up, scanning the darkened woods. Wind whispered through the trees, rustling leaves, but nothing moved. Still, her instincts itched. Something wasn't right.
She stood silently, taking slow steps away from the fire. Her boots crunched on dried pine needles. Behind her, Fig stirred but didn't wake.
Elara walked a slow circle around their camp, ears straining. No sound of animals. No heavy breaths. No snapping branches.
Still, the feeling lingered.
She returned to Fig, nudged him gently. "Hey. I'm moving deeper into the trees. Just a little. This spot... doesn't feel safe."
"What's wrong with this one?"
"Just trust me. It's too open. I want better cover. You can stay if you want."
He blinked at her, then grumbled. "No way am I staying alone in murder-woods. Lead on, wood witch."
She rolled her eyes and shouldered her pack again. They moved carefully, quietly, finding a dense copse surrounded by brambles and thicker trees. She built another small fire, slower this time, dampening it to keep it low.
Fig was asleep again in minutes.
Elara did not sleep.
She sat with her back against a tree, knife tucked close. Her eyes scanned the woods.
Nothing.
But the feeling remained.
The moon rose. Fog curled between the trees. Even the crickets seemed to hush.
She heard a soft rustle.
Elara froze.
She turned her head slowly.
A shape.
Dark, just beyond the firelight. Tall. Unmoving.
Her breath caught in her throat. She reached to wake Fig—but when she turned back, the shape was gone.
Her heart thudded.
She stood.
The fire flickered lower, and she stepped beyond its glow.
"Hello?" she whispered.
No answer.
She crept forward. Branches caught at her sleeves.
A whisper of breath in the dark.
Too close.
She spun.
No one there.
And then—
a sharp pain exploded in her chest.
She gasped, stumbled back. Looked down.
A spear. Crimson.
Her blood.
She tried to scream, but the air left her lungs in a ragged gasp.
A hand caught her shoulder.
She looked up. Eyes wide.
A face she didn't recognize. Pale. Unsmiling. So calm.
The face suddenly morphed into that of Kaden.
"You are not worthy. And you never will be."
She tried to speak. The forest tilted.
Another stab, lower.
Her knees buckled.
She collapsed against the roots of an ancient tree, her blood soaking into the moss. Her vision swam. Distantly, she heard Fig's voice calling her name.
Too far.
Too late.
The stars wheeled above her as darkness swallowed the trees.