The morning made it clear the city hadn't finished processing what had happened the day before.
Gareth left the Thornfield residence with his hands in his pockets and the raven on his left shoulder. On every corner there was something — a newspaper with large print. 'WHO IS MOURGARE?'A group arguing in front of a tavern. A woman taping a hand-drawn poster of the letters in the sky with a caption underneath that read 'Thank you'.
Gareth glanced at it as he passed.
He smiled.
"You're enjoying this too much." The voice arrived directly inside his head.
"I'm just observing."
"You're smiling."
"Is there something wrong with that?"
The raven tilted its head with the expression of something that had decided not to keep arguing for now.
Gareth looked at it. "By the way... what should I call you?"
The raven stayed silent for a few seconds.
"Corvus." Said with complete calm. "You can call me Corvus if you'd like."
"Corvus?" He brought a hand to his chin. "Works for me."
They stopped at the intersection that split the path toward the academy from the one leading to the city center.
Gareth looked right.
In that direction was the Hunter's Association building. And Victor was there right now — he knew it with the same certainty he knew Malgrath's attack patterns. After a day like yesterday the most powerful man in Eryndal was not home having breakfast.
He was probably about to walk into a meeting room. And the name Mourgare was going to be on the agenda.
Gareth looked at Corvus.
"How fast can you fly?"
Corvus looked back at him.
"Faster than you'd imagine. Why?"
"Well... I seriously doubt they let animals into the academy." He said. "The Association building isn't far though. Top floor. Victor must be in a meeting right now." His eyes lit up. "I want to know what face he makes when they have to talk about who Mourgare is. So — feel like giving me a hand?"
Corvus stared at him for a few seconds.
"You're quite the meddler, aren't you."
"I'm just having fun."
Corvus lifted off his shoulder without a word and disappeared over the rooftops toward the city center.
Gareth watched until he lost sight of him.
"I don't know if I can stand the wait..."
And he turned toward the academy.
***
When he walked in.
The Mourgare effect was in the air.
It wasn't that everyone stopped and looked at him — it was exactly the opposite. Nobody looked at him. The whispers that normally started the moment Dorian Thornfield crossed any door were pointed in a completely different direction.
"Did you read the paper this morning?"
"How could I not? My mother was crying until midnight."
"They're saying he did it alone. Do you actually believe that?"
"My father says it has to be someone rank S at minimum in disguise. That nobody without a known rank could—"
Gareth walked to his seat at the back of the room.
'Nobody with a known rank.'
"Ha!"
A short mocking laugh that fortunately nobody heard.
"Hey."
Lyra Ashven appeared in the seat beside him before he'd finished settling in.
"What do you think about all of this?" She gestured vaguely toward the groups around them. "About Mourgare."
Gareth looked at her for a moment.
"Why are you asking me?"
"Because everyone has an opinion and I want to know yours too." She looked out the window. "Doesn't it seem incredible to you? Someone nobody knows saved the entire world with one second to spare. Alone. Without anyone knowing who he was."
"Mm."
Lyra frowned. "That's all?"
"What else do you want me to say?"
"I don't know — something. A reaction. Anything." She leaned in slightly. "Don't you feel anything when you think about that? Curiosity? Admiration?"
Gareth looked at her.
"I think he did what he had to do."
"What he had to do?" Lyra stared at him like he'd said something in a foreign language. "He saved all of humanity!"
"Yeah."
"Alone!"
"Yeah."
"And that doesn't seem—?"
"Extraordinary?" Gareth leaned back in his chair. "Not especially. He's probably just some rank S hunter who decided to give himself a nickname. Nothing more."
Silence.
Lyra looked at him for several seconds with the expression of someone trying to find the thread of a conversation that doesn't have one.
She opened her mouth.
She closed it.
"I genuinely don't understand a single thing that goes on in your head." She said it quietly. Not with anger — with something closer to the resignation of someone who has spent a long time trying to figure something out and is starting to accept that they can't.
Gareth didn't respond.
The professor walked in and the conversation died on its own.
Somewhere in his forties. Dark hair with the first threads of grey at the temples. A clean scar on his chin, too straight to be from combat — probably a childhood accident.
Rank B on the uniform insignia. The kind of Hunter who reached a certain point and stayed there, probably for lack of something that had no exact name.
The kind of person who resented those who had it.
"Professor Aldren," Gareth murmured to himself as he settled into the back row.
In the game the character had no name. Gareth had simply read it off the nameplate he wore.
The class began with the energy of someone who knew nobody cared about what they were about to say, but was going to say it anyway.
Mana flow. Attribute classification. Active mana and latent mana, and why that difference mattered in Strongholds.
Forty-five minutes of information Gareth already knew before the professor finished his first sentence.
He looked out the window.
The sky over Eldralid was the same as always. The tower floated in the distance like a question nobody had ever finished answering.
'Forty-nine floors...'
'Floor 2 has—'
"Thornfield."
Gareth turned his head.
Professor Aldren was watching him from the front with the satisfied expression of someone who had just confirmed a suspicion.
"Does the outside seem more interesting than my class?"
"Not really." He looked at him. "Both seem equally interesting to me."
Silence swallowed the room. Someone held back a laugh.
Aldren watched him for three seconds and decided it wasn't worth his time.
The class continued.
***
At the end Professor Aldren stopped in front of the board with the expression of someone saving the best for last.
"Before you leave." His tone shifted — more direct, less formulaic. "A practical assignment."
The room paid attention for the first time in forty-five minutes.
"By tomorrow afternoon I want each of you to bring me the core of a Stronghold boss." A calculated pause. "There are dozens of active Strongholds across the city right now. I'm not asking you to enter a high-risk zone — I'm asking you to prove that you can identify a low-level one, neutralize the boss, and extract the core."
Murmurs. Visible nerves.
"I know what you're thinking. That you're students. That you're not ready." He looked across the room. "You're right. And you're going to do it anyway, because if you're going to become Hunters you need to know what the job actually is before someone pins a badge on your chest."
He walked to his desk and began distributing the artifacts — dark metal, integrated screen, palm-sized.
"These mana readers detect mana emissions within a fifty-meter radius. Under two hundred units is low level — that's what you're looking for. Between two hundred and five hundred is mid level. Above five hundred, don't go near it." He moved through the rows. "They also have a notification button. When you locate a Stronghold and decide to go in, press it. If you don't and something goes wrong, nobody will know where to look for you."
He reached the last row.
He distributed the remaining artifacts one by one until he reached Gareth.
He stopped.
He looked at him. Looked at the artifact. Looked at him again. With the expression of someone running a calculation they don't like.
"Rank F, huh." Said quietly enough not to make a scene but loudly enough for the nearby rows to hear. "I expected it from anyone but you, Thornfield."
Gareth looked at him.
"Are you going to give me one or not?"
A long pause. Professor Aldren placed the artifact in his hand with more force than necessary.
Gareth pocketed it without looking at it.
'I doubt I'll end up using it, but I'll hold onto it I suppose.'
***
When class finally ended he left the academy thinking at least that part was over.
Two blocks later a hand grabbed the strap of his bag from behind and pulled hard.
Gareth felt the weight disappear from his shoulder. He turned his head — two guys running in the opposite direction. The bag hanging from the first one's hand. The second laughing without bothering to lower his voice.
He recognized them immediately.
They turned the corner and disappeared.
But he didn't give it any importance and kept walking.
'The artifact is in my pocket. And the bag had nothing in it I can't replace.'
'Irrelevant.'
***
"Dorian!"
Just as he was about to reach the Thornfield residence he heard a shout he recognized instantly.
It was Lyra Ashven.
She was standing on the corner with Gareth's bag over her shoulder, soaked from the waist down, and visibly exhausted.
"I found it in the fountain in the plaza." She held the bag out to him. "It was floating."
Gareth took it.
"Thanks."
He turned toward his house.
"Wait." Lyra's voice had that tone of someone who has been holding something back for a while. "That's it? Just thanks?"
Gareth stopped.
"What else do you want me to say?"
"That you care about something! That you can't just let them do that to you like it's nothing!" Lyra crossed her arms. "They threw your bag in a fountain, Dorian. And you just react like you couldn't care less?"
"The bag is here." He lifted it slightly. "Nothing important is missing."
"That's not the point!" She exhaled. Then lowered her voice with the visible effort of someone controlling something they'd rather not. "Look, I... I don't understand what happened. We used to get along. We were friends, or something like that. And then out of nowhere I feel like there's a wall between us that I don't know how to..." She stopped. Looked away. When she looked back at him her cheeks were slightly more red than the cold justified. "I'm just asking for a little more consideration. That's all."
Gareth looked at her for a moment.
"I suppose I'll keep that in mind."
He turned toward the door.
It opened before he reached it.
Lady Elizabeth appeared in the frame. Her eyes moved from Gareth to the girl on the sidewalk. Back to Gareth. With the speed of someone who processes quickly and doesn't ask unnecessary questions.
"Dorian." A pause. "And her...? Is she your friend or something?"
"It's not relevant, she was just leaving."
"Yes, yes, I have to get home." Lyra raised a hand in a gesture that was trying to be casual.
Lady Elizabeth looked at her with a smile that carried more information than it showed.
"What a coincidence — I just finished cooking and made way too much." A pause. "If you'd like you're more than welcome to stay for dinner."
*'No. No. Anything but this.'*
"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to impose or anything like that." Lyra waved her hand.
'Good. Perfect.'
"You're not imposing at all." Lady Elizabeth stepped to one side, opening the door wider. "Besides you're soaked — you can't leave like that."
"It's just that I'm not really hungry either—"
Lyra's stomach growled.
Loud. Unmistakable.
Lady Elizabeth looked at Lyra's stomach.
"Well it seems your stomach disagrees." She stepped aside completely. "Come on in, I'm about to serve."
Lyra looked at Gareth.
Gareth looked back at her.
'Why does this keep happening to me?'