The supervisor's chamber was dimly lit, as always—its walls lined with weathered scrolls and aged relics of forgotten missions. Elias stood before the old man, his face calm, unreadable.
"You've already completed more external assignments than any of your peers," the supervisor said without lifting his eyes from the open dossier. "Your record speaks for itself. Clean. Swift. Minimal casualties."
A pause. Then the man looked up, and his expression softened—if only slightly.
"You could skip the trial and still receive commendation. You would pass without contest."
Elias remained silent, waiting for the real question.
The elder's eyes sharpened.
"So—do you still wish to take part?"
Elias gave a slight nod. "Yes."
The supervisor studied him for a breath, then exhaled. "Very well. Your resolve remains consistent. I respect that."
From a stack of mission scrolls, he retrieved a sealed one and handed it to Elias. The wax bore the academy's insignia—crossed quills over a mountain peak.
"This will be your official trial. You won't go alone. A small group of candidates will accompany you—those also deemed capable enough for this tier of assessment. I'll be there as well, observing the mission in person."
Elias took it and broke the wax seal with a quiet snap.
The scroll detailed a mission simple in form but laced with danger: to eliminate a group of bandits who had been preying on trade routes south of the Academy's outer perimeter. They were not ordinary cutthroats. Recent reports suggested they had among them a former inscriptionist—one who had been exiled for unethical modifications and blood-bound arrays.
The task was to eliminate them cleanly and return with proof. No hostages. No negotiations.
Elias closed the scroll and gave a slight nod. "Understood."
* * * * * *
Next Day
The morning sun hovered in a cloudless sky, but unease weighed heavily on Kellan Varo's shoulders.
Something was off.
It wasn't the route—they had taken the right path, well-traveled and flanked by autumn-touched fields. Nor was it the merchant they'd come to meet, at least not overtly. But something in the old man's eyes… the weariness in his posture… the dry tremor in his voice. It all hinted at something more than a simple escort mission.
The old man—Gerard—wore a traveler's cloak frayed at the edges, his boots stained by dust and resin. His hands, calloused and ringless, held the reins of a small mule laden with sealed crates. He eyed the group of young Inscription trainees with something between skepticism and disdain.
"So… you're the ones assigned to protect me?" His voice cracked like dry bark. He swept his gaze across the three students and let out a gruff, humorless laugh as his eyes landed on Tharic.
"These children are my escort? I was hoping for a warrior or two with actual arms—maybe someone who's shaved this decade."
Tharic's face burned red. He clenched his fists and stepped forward with his chest puffed out. "Who are you calling a child, you shriveled prune?"
Gerard smirked and looked away as if he hadn't heard. His eyes lingered a little longer on Kellan, who stood back silently, watching the exchange with unreadable calm.
Kellan finally spoke, voice low and flat. "We'll get you there alive. That's all that matters."
He turned to the team and gestured for them to prepare. No more words were needed.
The journey began.
The path was long and winding, stretching across rippling fields and narrow forest roads blanketed with dry leaves. The sky remained serene, and the wind carried the soft scent of pine and distant rain.
But for Kellan, something itched behind his ribs. His instincts—sharpened by years in blood-soaked missions—screamed that peace this perfect was never real. Too quiet. Too smooth. As if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Gerard walked ahead, muttering to himself about the trade route, the goods he'd procured, and the distant coastal caravan that awaited him. His voice trembled slightly when he spoke of his family—his hopes to earn enough to send his daughter to study in the Capital of the Empire.
Behind him, Mira kept a close pace, fingers always near the clasp of her satchel. Her silver hair glinted under the sun, her eyes scanning the treetops for movement.
Ryn, ever the shadow, trailed behind them at a distance—silent, calculating, unreadable. The faint hum of inscription energy pulsed softly beneath his robes.
And at the front, Tharic led proudly, swaggering as though he marched at the head of an imperial legion. His engraving tool hung from his belt like a warrior's blade, and he whistled tunelessly to himself.
Then—
Crack.
A shrill noise cut the air like a whip.
It wasn't the sound of a branch breaking.
It was sharper. Metallic. Wrong.
The air split open with the screech of scraping iron—like rust being torn from bone.
From the treeline, a chain shot forth—long and glimmering with twisting runes, like serpents etched in steel. At either end: curved, fang-like hooks dripping with violet-black poison.
It moved too fast.
Kellan turned—but only half an instant before the chain struck.
Thunk.
The hooks buried themselves deep into his side, tearing through cloak, armor, and flesh with a sickening wet snap. Blood spattered the dirt. He staggered, reaching for the chain—but his body froze, muscles seizing.
"Master Kellan!" Mira's scream tore through the silence.
He collapsed to one knee, gray eye wide with shock.
From behind the trees emerged two masked figures—each tugging one end of the chain. Their masks were carved from dark wood, twisted into leering demonic expressions with hollow, pitch-black eyes. They wore cloaks stitched with bone charms, and their movements were sharp, synchronized, inhuman.
Each held the chain with gloved hands, pulling taut with practiced cruelty.
The poison was not ordinary.
And the masked attackers… weren't done yet.
The trap had been sprung.
Now the hunt began.