Morning arrived without ceremony. Dust motes caught the light bleeding through the curtain's edge. Joseph's eyes opened.

Rayah slept beside him—flat on her back, mouth closed, blanket tucked with geometric precision. Perfect posture, even unconscious. The past few nights she'd been curled tight, shivering through fever dreams. This was progress.

He spared her half a glance before sliding from the bed. The door eased shut behind him with careful pressure. No creak.

Cold tile met his bare feet in the washroom. Colder water met his face. He scrubbed methodically, then stepped under the shower's spray and let his mind work.

First: negotiate kitchen access with the inn's staff. Cooking his own meals meant control—ingredients, costs, what actually went into his body. Non-negotiable.

Second: investigate those red-marked locations on Hogar's map. The gambling den especially. If patterns existed in which rocks hit the jackpot, that advantage was exploitable.

Third: city integration. Connections. Reputation. The methods cycled through familiar territory—sabotage then solve, provoke theft then play hero, frame someone and leverage temporal echo for blackmail. Standard approaches.

Fourth: check the middle wall reception for Nina Heartwell's entry record. Slim odds, but not zero.

Fifth: perfect his Sepherian. He'd grasped conversation, but reading and writing demanded mastery. Another few days minimum.

The language served double purpose. His Umbral Wraith spirit fed on conclusions—finished tasks, completed objectives. Finishing storybooks might appease it. Mental framework mattered. Intent mattered. Successfully concluding his journey to Rotheart, each day, his language studies, even mundane acts like ending his shower or breakfast. Each generated faint resonance. Harder tasks resonated stronger, though whether that tied to emotion, effort, or something else remained—

Rustling.

Someone else up early. Not unusual—

"Hey! You're Zephyr, right?"

"HUH!?"

A head appeared over the shower barrier. Blonde. Smiling. Young features framed by the gap above.

A— A child diddler? I guess I should have expected this! Exotic children from another island that seemed weak and alone without parents or supervision! Was Rayah safe in the room?I had a slight feeling we would be a target for—

"Don't worry." The stranger chuckled, eyes opening to reveal blank whites. "I'm blind, you see? Finish up and get dressed. I have news for you and Mistress Rayah."

Joseph's heart hammered. He forced his breathing steady.

"Your heartbeat just spiked from seventy-two to about... hundred and fifteen?" The man tilted his head, smile widening. "Then you controlled it. Impressive. Most people panic longer." He tapped his ear. "Sound paints pictures, Mr. Zephyr. You're five-foot-nine, lean build, standing three feet from me with your weight on your left leg. Defensive posture. Smart."

Royal Guard. Had to be. Normal blind men didn't read a room like that.

"I'll be waiting in your room. Two doors down the hall, left side. The one with the squeaky hinge you avoided earlier."

The head disappeared.

Joseph stood frozen under the spray, recalculating everything.

Rayah sat awake on the bed when Joseph entered—dressed, wary, eyes tracking. The blonde man occupied the room's only chair, guard uniform now visible in proper light. His fingers drummed against the armrest in a pattern that seemed random until Joseph realized he was counting their breathing rates.

They watched him settle on the mattress edge.

"My name is Hans, lieutenant of the Royal Guard." The man's smile never wavered. "Apologies for the surprise earlier, Mr. Zephyr. I thought it would be funny, you see."

Intentional. Joseph swallowed a laugh.

"Member of Parliament Hogar has changed plans. You'll be attending Rotheart Arcane Academy starting..." Hans checked his watch with practiced efficiency, fingers reading raised markings. "Today. Three hours from now. Well, two hours and thirty-five minutes, to be exact. And no—you can't ask why or reject. It's for your safety."

The announcement hit like winter water.

Their city exploration had lasted shorter than a wet fart.

Shock didn't come from confusion about the reason. That was obvious enough—they'd discovered something new about the entity that wiped the forest and killed the Leviathan. Something that suggested prison origins. Something that might be hunting them.

Arcane Academy. Joseph had considered it as one possible path, alongside various guilds and institutions. Prestigious. Knowledge-hoarding. Entry required recommendations and proven aptitude. Once enrolled though, freedom became... negotiable. Monitored schedules, protocols, guidelines. The churches and Hunters Guild offered far more autonomy than campus life.

Seemed the choice had been made for him.

"So!" Hans beamed. "Any questions?"

"What do we need to know?" Joseph kept his tone level. "How should we prepare?"

"Oh, right!" Hans scratched his head. "We'd planned to offer enrollment after a week. First week is hectic—events, orientation, chaos. Thought we'd quietly slip you in once things settled. Today is actually the second day of the semester. It'll start with a club fair, so either join a club or make your own. Joining or making one is strongly encouraged."

"Encouraged how?"

"Clubs get access to restricted Academy sections—specialized libraries, training grounds, artifact vaults. Regular students can't enter those areas. Successful clubs also receive funding, priority for internships, and influence in Academy decisions." Hans leaned forward. "The top five clubs basically run student life. They get private workshops, licensed hunting permits, even access to sealed historical records. Making your own club means independence, but you'll be competing with organizations that have had years to establish themselves."

Joseph's mind raced. Resources. Access. Independence. Those restricted sections probably contained information they'd need. Joining an existing club meant surveillance, obligations, someone else's agenda. Creating their own meant control.

"What counts as a successful club?"

"Membership numbers, achievements, contributions to Academy research or prestige. Combat clubs win tournaments. Research clubs publish papers. Service clubs complete high-difficulty missions. The Academy values results." Hans's smile took on an edge. "Fair warning—clubs that don't meet minimum membership requirements by semester's end get dissolved. Need at least twelve active members."

Twelve people. In two hours, they'd need something compelling enough to convince twelve strangers to join a brand-new club over established powerhouses.

"I assume you've filed the enrollment paperwork on our behalf?"

"Yes! You've done your research!" Hans lit up. "Excellent!"

He's just happy he has to explain less.

"What name did you enter for me?" Rayah leaned forward, tension threading her voice.

"Hmmm?" Hans tilted his head toward her, eerily precise despite the blank eyes.

"Are you deaf or blind?!"

"Only blind."

Rayah took a breath. "Did you enter my name as Ella, or as Rayah Vandymion?"

"Ah." Hans nodded slowly. "We respected your wish to remain anonymous. Entered you as Ella, no last name."

"Good." Relief softened the hard line of her shoulders.

"Today is the last day to create a club, by the way." Hans dropped it casually, like it wasn't critical information with a ticking clock attached. "Registration closes at the fair's opening."

"So—will you join or make one?"

"Make one," Rayah said without hesitation.

"Of course," Joseph agreed.

Creating their own club meant establishing a power base inside the Academy. It meant access to resources without oversight, a legitimate reason to recruit useful people, and cover for investigating whatever threat had Hogar paranoid enough to lock them behind Academy wards.

"Well..." Hans's smile turned sympathetic. "The club fair starts soon. You'll need something to display. Sell something, entice people, that sort of thing. Other clubs had a week. Some started way before that. You have..." Another watch check. "Three hours? Maybe two if you want setup time."

"That should be plenty."

"Oh! And here I worried for nothing!" Hans laughed, genuine and warm. "Meet me at the north main checkpoint of the inner gates in two hours. Bring your club name and registration concept. I beg you not to make it something stupid or regrettable—it'll be known beyond just the academy. No one joins clubs with embarrassing names. I remember what my friend named ours when I was still enrolled..." He shook his head. "Didn't last long."

"Right." Joseph stood. "We'll see you in two hours, Lieutenant Hans."

"Looking forward to it." Hans rose smoothly, navigating around furniture with unconscious precision. At the door, he paused. "Oh—Miss Ella? Your breathing is still shallow on the left side. The fever damaged something in your lung. See the Academy healers when you arrive. They're expensive but thorough."

The door clicked shut before either could respond.

Silence flooded the space.

Joseph and Rayah stared at each other.

Two hours to create a club from nothing. No preparation. No materials. No time to scout the competition or understand what worked. But they needed twelve members minimum, access to restricted areas, and a concept strong enough to compete with established organizations.

"He's right about my lung," Rayah said quietly. She pressed a hand to her ribs. "I can feel it when I breathe deep."

"We'll handle it after the fair." Joseph stood, mind already cycling through possibilities. "First—club concept. What do we have that other clubs don't?"

"Two hours." Rayah's mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. "Everyone else had a week or more."

"Exactly." Joseph met her eyes. "So we can't compete on polish or preparation. We need something immediate. Something that makes people need to join today."

"Desperation as strategy?"

"Opportunity as bait."

Rayah considered this, then nodded. "What kind of opportunity?"

Good question. What could two unknown foreigners offer that established Academy clubs couldn't?

This should be interesting.

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