Staring at the lines he'd copied onto the page, Rod felt an inexplicable dread—as if the words themselves foretold a looming calamity.
The dark-red star's text had, at least, confirmed his suspicions—and also forced a complaint about the examiner's "translation."
How do you turn "Devourer of Darkness" into "Black Bowl," exactly?
More troubling, though, were the hazy phrases beneath Devourer of Darkness.Maybe that's on me, Rod thought. I'm stitching guesses together—some parts must be wrong. Looks like I'll be spending a long time in linguistics hell.
Just imagining years with those worm-like ancient glyphs made him queasy.Worse still was the obelisk's warning.
What did INVASION mean?What did "the Nightmare arrives" imply?
A bad feeling clawed at him. Old troubles hadn't faded, and new ones were already knocking.
He'd have to return to the dream.
Decision made, Rod washed up and lay down. Exhaustion pulled him under the moment his head touched the pillow.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Open up!"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Rod, open this door or I'll knock it off its hinges!"
He snapped awake to the dorm ceiling, to pounding fists, and Cassandra's voice.
He shook his head, blinking.I didn't enter the dream? It's already the next day? I only slept once?
He looked at his hands.Is there some special trigger? Maybe I didn't reach deep calm… Maybe I need the gesture—
CRASH.
The door collapsed inward.
Cassandra charged in like an enraged lioness."Why didn't you open? We're about to be late!"
Annoyed at being derailed, Rod chose to shoo the nuisance away.
"I was waiting for you," he said.
"Waiting… for me?"
"Mhm. Waiting for you to break through my defenses—and enter my world."
A murmur rose from the hallway.Wayne whistled.The green-haired boy jolted upright from his drowse. "Eh? Leader's going on maternity leave?"
Cassandra's face steamed scarlet—which somehow only made her look angrier."Class. Now. If Team Ten loses one point, I'll eat you alive!"
…
Kinworth ran on credits—not just individual, but team credits.They meant honor—and rewards.
All the way there, Cassandra rattled on about the use of credits and sternly warned Rod that their priority was study and training. Children could come later.
Rod heard none of it. His thoughts were a tangle of worry and a faint panic.
The morning's courses were The Sacred Fire, Numbers and the Art of War, and Humanity's Last Hope: The Founding and Continuance of Trolean.All theory.
The Sacred Fire explained how the strange blaze called the Guardian Flame protected humankind.The instructor—a young, striking priestess—wore vestments like a living flame: bright, translucent, and remarkably effective at improving everyone's attentiveness.
She spoke vividly of fire's symbiosis with humanity.Humans had to live within the Flame's light; outside it, the black mist gnawed at the soul, turning people into monsters.The Guardian Flame, in turn, needed fuel and crafted reagents to burn strong.Every settlement in the kingdom centered on a Sanctum of Flame; the size of its fire determined the size of the settlement.The Flame was precious, rarely moved—and its range limited.For travel in darkness, people separated Afterfire and Afterlight from the Sanctum, sealing them in lamps to push back the mist on the road.Afterfire was stronger but costly to the Sanctum; Afterlight was essential—hung at every door, worn at every belt.
Rod listened closely—until the priestess turned to theology and dense sacred terms.Then his focus drifted… to the priestess herself.Springy, he assessed, academically.
Numbers and the Art of War was far duller: arithmetic puzzles with monsters."A hundred enemies come ten per bell; we slay twenty per bell; how long until zero?"The bespectacled instructor offered no highlights.
Humanity's Last Hope was history: how the hero Trolean bore the final sparks to the capital and lit the Sacred Flame at the dawn of the Dark Age.The elderly lecturer's dry voice could render even legends inert.
Most students nodded off.
Only Rod fought to parse the differences among Trolean City, Trolean Kingdom, and Trolean Humanity—and their meanings.Despite his effort, much remained fuzzy.
At last the session ended—only for a notice to summon them to a departmental meeting in the afternoon.
Rod had reached his limit. During the lunch break, he slipped into a quiet corner, sat, and closed his eyes.Breathing deep, he smoothed his mind.He crossed his thumbs, formed the lightning-shaped gesture—
—and the soul fell upward.
Mist swallowed his sight.Seconds later he opened his eyes upon the dream:the world of endless fog.
The obelisk stood directly ahead.The black altar waited a short distance to the side.
He strode to the obelisk, touched stone.The deep night sky and a thousand lights bloomed again—the same dark-red star pulsing at the center.When he fixed on it, the same words surfaced.This time, he knew their rough meaning.
He checked a while, confirming his copied forms were accurate. Translation would be the real battle.
I wonder if the other lights can truly ignite… They feel like some kind of projection, he thought.
He released the face and touched the obelisk's flanks again.As before: black and gold rose like sediments—gauges, measuring something.
Finally, the back.
His palm met stone, and blood-red glyphs crawled down the face, pulsing with urgent light.
One symbol… was different from yesterday.
Rod's pupils tightened. A chilling guess took shape.
From its position—Three sunsets had become two.
A countdown?A final warning?
Cold seeped through him.Is the shadow coming back? If it shatters the obelisk… do I die with it?
A sudden clutch seized him—falling; the world blurred—
and he was back in the lounge, seated where he'd started.
Wayne withdrew his hand, two food boxes set before him."What are you doing? Didn't you hear me?"
There was an edge of annoyance in his voice."I got you food. Hard enough to snag. Blueflower fritters with jammed mallow— trust me, they're great."
Rod glanced at the blue-green lump and nearly gagged.This is cuisine? For humans?
Blissfully unaware, Wayne scooped a wad of the stuff into his mouth."I heard we're picking electives this afternoon. Got any in mind?" he mumbled between sticky bites.
Green-hair arrived with his own box of… cuisine, and plopped down."I hear the Ancient Tongues instructor is a great beauty. Maybe my soul is fated with hers."
Wayne frowned. "All you think about is women. Our task is to study, train, and become real fighters."
Green-hair snorted. "Why do you sound like her? Is this sickness contagious? Rod, get her on maternity leave already. I can't take the nagging."
Do I look like a stud horse to you? Rod's thoughts frayed again. He forced himself calm, tried to gather his focus—
—but the thread slipped. His mind stayed tangled; the blood-red variant glyph flashed behind his eyes, promising an ominous future.
The short break ended.Cassandra swept into the lounge like a small storm, her presence already drawing hangers-on.They parroted her talk of diligence and duty, urging everyone up.
Green-hair groaned, "Rod, please deal with her. It's only been days—I dread the years."
Cassandra's stern gaze cut across the room. "Zalaise, what did you say?"
He wilted like a plucked rooster and fell silent.
Cassandra scanned the group. "This afternoon's meeting is very important. Anyone who skips, I will—"
Click.
The lounge door opened.
A tall man in a gray robe stepped inside.Black curls framed a face in his forties; his eyes were a striking, unmistakable gray.
He inclined his head to Cassandra."Respected group leader, I must borrow one of your students. I'm afraid he will miss the meeting."
He lifted a hand and displayed a teal badge, engraved with scales, a sword, and a flame.
"I am Laurent, Chief Inspector of the Office of Inquisition."