Chapters 193-194

Chapter 193

The sound of the slap cracking Iskara’s face resembles lightning splitting a tree.

The Infernal Princess flew over the obsidian-paved villa that her parents owned close to the Academy. Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal walks over where she just sent her daughter’s body under her Prince-Consort, Kaedor Drazhal, reserved gaze. 

“The Princess—” Veythra Drazhal tries to interrupt but her sister simply burns the objection in her throat with one fiery gaze.

Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal lifts Iskara by her long, luscious hair, letting the light peering through the stained glass windows reflect many colors on the swollen visage of her daughter. 

“You disobeyed.”

Another slap turns Iskara’s face so hard it almost snaps her neck. Yet, with her mother holding her by her hair, she stays there in her mother grasp, powerless to do anything but watch the fury of Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal unfold.

“You lied.” 

Another slap hits Iskara, whose consciousness momentarily slips from the pain and the blood loss. 

“Kaedor, the potion.” 

The Infernal Princess soon feels a liquid trickling through her mouth and her body starting to heal, but she knows this is not for her sake; it’s for her mother’s. 

“I thought you were blessed,” Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal says in a deep, rumbling voice, “I thought that my talented daughter had found a way to make something of the Mad King’s inheritance!” 

Another slap and Iskara feels her jaw hanging loose now. 

“And yet, you hid it from me! You hid from me that this damned vermin is Baalrek’s apprentice!!!” 

“Mother—” Iskara tries to summon some words, but Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal puts her hand over her mouth, letting go of her hair and holding her by her jaw, cracking it further.

“You made a mockery of me, Iskara,” Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal says slowly and with so much poison that if her saliva dropped on the floor it would sizzle. “You made a mockery out of your mother by asking me to give this boy an exemption. And now, now that that foul Headmaster knows, we can do nothing. If we were to hurt the vermin, it would be only too clear that we had a hand in this…” 

Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal puts her other clawed hand under Iskara’s jawline. 

“How could the blood of my blood deceive me, betray me, and make me look like a fool?!” The woman removes the clawed hand from Iskara’s throat before her fury makes her do something she’d regret. 

She lets Iskara fall on the hard ground, half-broken, and then turns away, staring out of the stained windows. 

“You have no idea what this makes me look like in front of the other families—what a weakling, what a pathetic loser the other of Royal blood must think of me. And now, I expect them to be circling me like jackals do with carrion.”

Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal turns toward her daughter, trying and failing to get up. 

“Kaedor, give her another potion when I’m done talking.”

Her Prince-Consort husband nods and stays silent.

“I will take care of the upstarts who’ll try to make a move after this. I have already reports of factions trying to gather more members to oust me.” Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal puts a black, obsidian-like boot over Iskara’s neck, pressing down until she starts wheezing and clawing at her mother’s foot.

“You will be made to swear an oath. The first time around I trusted you because you’re my daughter. I told you to report anything suspicious on the boy, and yet, you said nothing even when word got out about him being Baalrek’s Apprentice—”

“Our daughter’s not breathing,” Prince-Consort Kaedor points out. 

Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal looks almost regretful in letting her daughter’s lungs taste air again, but then she removes the boot and says, “stand.” She watches as Iskara, with agonizingly slow movements manages to get up. The mother takes in every single second of it. 

“This is an attempt on our lineage,” Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal says. “An attempt that will only be stopped by the vermin’s death. From now on, you will be made to swear an oath that binds you to do all that is necessary in order to have Jacob Cloud expelled from Ytrial. Once he’s not under the Headmaster’s protection anymore, you will take his life if you want to keep living. If you don’t, I will take that Rainbow Skill from your body and wear it myself. You clearly don’t deserve it.” 

With that said, Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal slowly closes her fist in front of Iskara, with the space around her daughter starting to compress. One by one, her daughter’s bones start snapping as she shouts in complete silence, completely cut off from the others. 

Moments before it’s too much for the Infernal Princess to take, her mother relents and looks at her husband, giving him a small nod and gesturing at Veythra to follow her.

As they walk away from the scene, Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal says, “you will monitor Iskara’s progress and report to me, Veythra. Don’t make me force you under an oath as well.” 

Veythra slowly nods, knowing her sister is not going to accept any other response. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

Veythra tried her best to protect Iskara, but once news of Jacob declaring himself the Mad King’s apprentice during the Traps and Cracks 501 course spread, there was nothing she could do for her niece.

*

Orrivane shoots down with his Void Magic one of Asterion’s orbs, frowning when he finds another one headed toward his face.

I could shield this away with Event Horizon…

But Orrivane knows that Asterion himself most likely has a Rainbow Skill of his own. And therefore, with the two still partly suspicious and untrusting of the other, he decides to raise his hands.

“You got me,” Orrivane says with a sigh. “You have excellent tempo. I couldn’t cast another spell to protect me.”

“Your magic is terrifying,” Asterion says with a nod, “it makes me sweat every time you attack me, Orrivane. I might be more versatile, but if you struck me with an attack during a real match, I’d be dead.” 

He’s very gracious, Orrivane thinks. There’s no way he’d ever be so slow to get hit. 

Asterion’s combat style is a bit of a puzzle to Orrivane. The Highblood employs a mix of close-combat and mid-range thanks to the orbs he’s mastered. He barely uses the spear when he gets serious, though.

What a weird man, Orrivaen thinks to himself, yawning.

“I’m going to sleep this off, I’m all drained up of Mana.” 

“Thank you for the training session,” Asterion says, cupping his hands toward Orrivane.

“My pleasure,” Orrivane says before walking away from the training ground they borrowed.

Orrivane walks under the orange sky while thinking of Jacob. The Leader of the Champions is the one who suggested Orrivane spars with the other Champions. Usually, the Void Mage wouldn’t have listened to anyone suggesting he go out and socialize, but Jacob had made a great point: his magic was too straightforward. Even with his Rainbow Skill, Orrivane’s arsenal was very limited. He needs to learn to employ better tactics during a fight, and every Champion has a unique trait that could push Orrivane to learn more.

Yet, I’m still stuck on Asterion—he just moves too well. He reads our sparring sessions and times my attacks.

Thanks to the overwhelming power of Void Magic, Orrivane usually doesn’t have to worry about tactics too much. What Jacob criticized as the weakness of his style is also what has made Orrivane so powerful for so long: straightforward annihilation. 

But what Nimirea did to us…

Orrivane still remembers when the Leader of the Dark Champions humiliated every single Champion at once. That woman put on a performance that made him feel deeply uncomfortable with his own capabilities. 

Yet, she’s still too far. She’s too powerful. I’m not even sure what I’d do to become able to go toe to toe with her.

Even Asterion, whom Orrivane considered probably the best melee fighter among the Champions, was barely making progress. And, when compared to Nimirea’s power, they were simply too far from it. In a way, Orrivane wondered if they even existed in the same reality. 

I could see myself learning more and challenging Asterion until I win. I can see the path that’d lead me there. But Nimirea? If the Dark Champions are at that level…

“Hello there,” Orrivane immediately raises a hand when he hears the voice of someone whose Mana signature he didn’t detect. Being a Void Mage with very poor defense capabilities, he’s trained his perception to the extreme. The fact that someone evaded that perception is usually a really bad sign. 

Orrivane stares at a woman with white hair and light-grey eyes, close to white themselves. 

Fuck.

Orrivane starts backpedalling and raises both his hands, channeling his Mana. 

“Who are you?” 

“My name is Talia, I’m a Dark Champion—”

Orrivane discharges a large orb of Void Magic that hits the spot where, until moments ago, Talia had been sitting.

He turns around, spinning wildly since he once again lost her Mana signature. 

He feels a hand on his neck and freezes. 

“Oh, don’t do that, please. I’m just here to talk. We can’t kill you Fake Champions yet. It’d be bad Karma.”

I could probably risk my life and take her out. I’ll generate an Event Horizon behind us and—

“If you use your Rainbow Skill, there’s a good chance I’ll be forced to really hurt you, Orrivane Nyxmoor. Please, just hear me out.”

Orrivane slowly nods, “I’ll listen.” 

“I’m letting you go. Don’t do anything stupid, please.”

Orrivane grits his teeth and walks away, turning to face the white-haired woman. 

“What do you want from me?” Orrivane asks. 

“Why are you so defensive? I’m—” 

“You’re a murderer. Your Cult kills swaths of innocents whenever the Academy can’t reach you guys with Knights. And you ask me why I’m not being polite toward you?” 

“It’s war, Orrivane,” Talia looks sad. “In war, there are casualties that involve the innocents, too. We know many don’t choose their side. And, by the way, this is why I’m here.” 

Orrivane frowns. 

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m here to make you a proposal. Join the Dark Champions and—”

Orrivane raises his hand again and channels Void Magic. 

“I’d rather die right now as a free man than ever even consider joining a Cult again, Talia.” 

The white-haired woman looks peeved.

“You need power. You’re weak.”

“I’ll die a weak man with some honor and dignity.”

“Dead people don’t have neither honor nor dignity,” the white-haired woman replies. Summoning some Mana on her hand that makes Orrivane shudder. 

What kind of insanely powerful Void Magic is that?! 

Talia is a Void Mage, and Orrivane, being a Void Mage himself, can already feel just how much stronger than him she is. 

“Orrivane Nyxmoor, I offer you—” 

“Kill me,” Orrivane says, not lowering his arms. “I’d rather die right now.”

“You know I’m much stronger than you and I could kill you like a bug.”

“I do. I can feel it. Whoever you are, you are powerful. But I’m not joining the Cult of Asmodeus.”

Talia seems to ponder what to do for a moment and then she shrugs.

“You had some potential. What a pity.”

The next moment, she’s gone.

What the hell was that? 

Then, another question pops in his mind.

Are they approaching anyone else? I gotta tell Jacob.

*

Asterion looks at a man with a calm demeanor and a pair of silver glasses on his nose. 

“The Dark Champions are not who you think they are, Asterion.”

“Asterismos,” Asterion says, “where do you come from? I’m not aware of any branch of my enclave. I thought we were all in one place.”

“There are many things you don’t know,” the other Highblood replies. “And I know how you must feel about Asmodeus given our history. But let me enlighten you. Let me tell you what kind of power you can achieve, the kind of power you’ve always craved.” 

Asterion looks down for a moment and then nods. 

“I’ll hear you out.”

Chapter 194

Priscilla Valemont touches with impatience the pommel of the sword at her side with narrowed eyes as she scrutinizes her children. She stomps a boot on the ground seeing their apologetic faces. 

“How can Jacob have disappeared?!” She finally lets out her frustration. 

Kai, the youngest of the four, the Champion in the Generation of Legends alongside Jacob, bows his head. 

“Mother, Jacob has disappeared. I’ve asked around but no one seems to know where he is, exactly. All that I’ve gathered is that he might be training.” Despite Kai’s gigantic frame, he looks very small in front of his mother’s rage.

But, truthfully, it’s not exactly rage.

It’s worry.

“Mother,” Thorne, the third oldest brother, bows himself. “Jacob will be fine. He’s resourceful. He’s still under the Academy’s protection.”

“Have you heard what the Headmaster announced, Thorne?” Priscilla Valemont is literally vibrating with fury. “They’ll soon be after Jacob!”

The Headmaster has just dispatched a communication throughout the Academy that rattled everyone: the Generation of Legends has to be tested and trialed. The Generation of Legends’ prophecy, following what the Headmaster announced, is more important than the single members who make it up. And, therefore, the Headmaster announced that any student in the first year can challenge the current Champions once they meet them in person, and the Champions must accept the challenge unless they’ve already been challenged that day or they are just done with training. And even in the case they were exhausted, they are to rest and prepare for the next challenger. 

Ilyra Valemont, second oldest, clicks her tongue, “Mother, you have other business to worry about. Uncle Dorian is trying to muster up more support. They want to supplant the main line. Grandmother might not have the political support to keep the throne. You should return to court and challenge him.” 

“That’s what my cousin wants,” Priscilla Valemont growls. “Ilyra, you should know better. They’re provoking us.”

“Mother,” the oldest, Valerius Valemont, says his piece, “I find myself agreeing with Ilyra. Jacob will be protected by the rules of the Academy. You? For Duke Dorian to take power, they need you out of the picture. He’s requesting a severing.”

Priscilla Valemont raises an eyebrow.

“How do you know of this, Valerius?”

A severing is the process through which unruly members of the family who know too much about the secrets of the family’s heritage are… dealt with.

“Mother, I’m not a child anymore. I’m deep into the matters at court.” 

Priscilla Valemont now grabs her sword until her knuckles whiten. 

“Duke Dorian is ready for anything, but right now, it doesn’t matter. If this is true, they’ll not just want me. They’ll want Jacob. He’s the Guide of Champions. And with people after his spot, soon many noble families will become desperate to make space for their scions. That means that they’ll employ whatever strategy in order to win. Jacob will soon be target of plots he can’t even begin to understand.”

“Mother, you underestimate Jacob,” Kai frowns. “He’s much smarter than you give him credit for.”

“Jacob’s a child, still,” Priscilla Valemont shakes her head. “He was not raised like the rest of you. He was brought up in a mine, Kai. I’m sure he knows hardships, but he has no idea what den of vipers and forest of crouching tigers he’s about to step into now that the Headmaster put out this new rule for the first year. You know how to be careful and you’re protected by the family. Jacob… he never accepted to become a Valemont. He’s still a Cloud… and a strong wind is about to blow him away.”

“What do you want us to do?” Thorne frowns.

“Find him,” Priscilla Valemont says. “Find him and tell him he has to give up.”

“Give up?” Kai frowns.

“He can’t be a Champion anymore,” Priscilla Valemont says. “He’s too weak. This game is about to become much harsher than he can take. He’s not someone who was made to win it.”

*

Vyrrak is slowly going through the motions of the Dance of Dragons in the courtyard of the small house his wife and he bought when he hears someone shouting his name.

He turns to see Kaelric the Orphan. 

“Kaelric?” Vyrrak asks. “What’s going on?” 

The swordsman is frantic and it’s clear to Vyrrak, even before he starts explaining.

“Have you heard what the Headmaster said?!” Kaelric says. 

“I heard,” Vyrrak says. “What about it? It was just announced.”

“Vyrrak,” Kaelric slowly wets his lips before saying, “Zibrek and Boomgar already lost.”

“What?” Vyrrak frowns. He’s not particularly attached to either, but they have gone through months as Champions together. “Now, there’s a frenzy and everyone’s out looking for Jacob! They want to take his spot!” 

Vyrrak stops for a moment.

In the aftermath of passing Vice Principal Caradoc’s test and making a mockery of Traps and Cracks 501’s teacher, Professor Kharzun, Vyrrak has been busy spending time with his wife, who’s visiting the Academy, and training the newly-learned Dance of Dragons. 

It has completely gone over his head that Jacob Cloud, the Leader of Champions, still is the weakest of all Champions. He’s pretty sure that even Zibrek, in a one on one situation, would have easily taken him down. Yet, knowing just how resourceful and astonishing Jacob can be, he has completely forgotten how weak he is in an actual duel. 

“Fuck,” Vyrrak says, seeing Guinevere walking toward them. 

“What’s happening?” His wife asks. 

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Vyrrak says, walking rapidly and then breaking into a run. “I need to talk to my grandfather!” 

Guinevere becomes pale and nods, looking at Vyrrak’s back.

Kaelric, confused, turns to the woman and asks. 

“Who’s his grandfather? And why does it matter?”

*

A man with golden framed spectacles looks at the Dragonkin who bursts through his door. A powerful gale of wind makes a bunch of papers and forms fly all over the room.

“Well, Vice Principal John will have to sort those again, I suppose,” the Headmaster scratches his beardless chin. 

“Grandfather,” Vyrrak says. 

“I’m only your grandfather when you need something,” the Headmaster laments dramatically. “Why don’t you come more often for tea, Vyrrak?”

“Grandfather,” Vyrrak grits his teeth. “I am busy.”

“Not too busy to come and ask for favors,” the Headmaster yawns and then points at the young Dragonkin. “I’m happy, by the way. I spoke to Caradoc. I know what you managed to do.”

Vyrrak suddenly gets on his knees and touches his head on the floor. 

“Grandfather, please, take it back.”

“Huh?” The Headmaster stretches his neck to look at Vyrrak since his large mahogany desk blocks his view. “What are you talking about?” 

“You know what I’m talking about,” Vyrrak says, not moving his forehead. “Jacob can’t lose his place as Leader of Champions. He’s the only thing that could win us the war against the Dark Champions!”

“My goodness,” the Headmaster gets up with a frown and now doesn’t look like a young man in his manners anymore as he gets close to Vyrrak, hoists him up as if the Dragonkin weighs nothing, and dusts his scales. The Headmaster plucks a dead scale from Vyrrak’s forehead and tosses it away, caressing his grandchild face.

“Vyrrak, do not kneel for anyone. Not even for me.” 

“Grandfather, I—”

“Just call me grandpa, Vyrrak. I can’t stand your father using all the honorifics with me and his obsession with pure blood. If I was so obsessed with pure blood, he wouldn’t have never been conceived. Now, call me grandpa or I won’t answer you questions.”

Vyrrak sighs. 

“Grandpa, I need your help.”

“Why don’t you let me show you something?” The Headmaster says. 

Before Vyrrak can ask what, the Headmaster touches his spectacles and a high-pitched ringing is the last thing Vyrrak hears before he opens his eyes again on a mountaintop. It’s night, and a giant host of stars shine in the sky. 

Cold winds buffet the two and Vyrrak looks around, confused, until his grandfather points at a plateau on which thirteen giant pillars have been erected. 

Vyrrak squints his eyes and sees Jacob in the middle of it, completely covered in blood. From the looks of it, his own blood. 

“What’s happening?” Vyrrak mutters. 

“Caradoc was Baalrek’s closest friend, and the one who helped him develop his most feared Primordial Spell,” the Headmaster explains. “From what I understand, Baalrek passed his best Skill and his Primordial Spell to Jacob.” 

“Grandfather—” Vyrrak corrects himself when he sees the Headmaster eyeing him. “Grandpa, why does he look like he’s about to die, then?” 

“Baalrek was, even in my accounts, one of the purest, most crystalline talents the world had ever seen and might ever see. His body received one of the roughest Rainbow Skills and tamed it without any external help. Not only he was possibly one of the greatest geniuses when it came to Primordial Spells, just like his ancestors, the Devils, but he also possessed the kind of physical and magical gifts that most people can’t even fathom.”

“Are you saying that Jacob, not being as gifted…”

“He’s trying to learn a Primordial Spell that made Baalrek sweat,” the Headmaster says, tilting his head upward. 

They both hear a blood-chilling scream of pain that comes out of Jacob before his body starts spasming. There’s more blood coming out of his skin, which is ruptured so much it barely looks anything other than raw flesh. 

“Grandpa, please, we should stop it, he’s about to die!”

“He is,” the Headmaster nods. 

“He is,” the Headmaster nods. “And he has been close to dying every night for more than a week.”

Vyrrak’s claws curl into his palms as he watches Jacob convulse on the stone. The pillars around him sends nigh-invisible shock-waves that rise and falls in rhythm with his screams, and every pulse drives another wave of Mana through his body. Jacob arches hard enough that his spine looks ready to snap, and then he slams back down.

His breath comes in ragged gasps that tear at his throat, and each inhale drags little air into his lungs while each exhale spills blood onto the stone beneath him.

“Training?” Vyrrak growls, and his voice shakes. “What insane training is this?!” 

“One not meant for someone like him. He’s weak, Vyrrak. Possibly more cunning than every Infernal I’ve met—possibly—but not near as strong as any of them.” 

Jacob’s hands claw at the ground.

When he screams again, Vyrrak feels it in his guts. 

“Why doesn’t he stop?” Vyrrak asks. “Why hasn’t he stopped already?!”

“Among the original Generation of Legends, only Kaelric comes from a humble background. And, unlike Jacob, he was born under a very lucky star when it came to physical gifts and talent. His understanding of the sword is beyond his age. If I had to give a personal assessment, as good as it gets for someone at the first year.” 

The Headmaster pauses.

“Jacob Cloud was born in poverty despite a Princess as a mother. He mostly inherited his gifts from his father, which makes him below average even for the Academy’s standards. Luck, persistence, and the right meetings have brough him here. Yet…”

The man takes off the gold spectacles to clean them with his tunic. 

“Yet, this is where he was never meant to stand. This is a trial for someone like you, Vyrrak. And even you would have struggled. For him? This is not possible. Caradoc warned him that if he continued he’d die. And, personally, I’d have expected him to give up in two ways: he could have either accepted that he was never meant to stand among the great and accept death during this trial—quite honorable and a great achievement for some—or just give up and go back to an ordinary life.” 

The Headmaster smiles at Vyrrak.

“Do you have a guess why he’s refusing to give up?” 

Vyrrak shakes his head. He can’t imagine being willing to die for a Skill like this. He would give everything himself during such a trial—but not his own life. 

“What’s the most important thing in your life, Vyrrak?” 

“My wife,” Vyrrak replies. “My wife and my freedom.”

“Every Champion in the Generation of Legends probably has a different answer but every one sounds like yours,” the Headmaster nods. “Everyone’s but Jacob’s. I suspect that if you were to ask him, he wouldn’t even understand, at first. He would just say something like ‘being a Knight.’”

The Headmaster’s voice has a slight quiver that Vyrrak doesn’t fail to notice. 

Another surge hits, and Jacob’s chest caves inward for a split second before snapping back into place. Blood sprays from his mouth as his heart stutters and then forces itself to beat again.

“I don’t think that most people set out on their journey with the best intentions. Every living creature has small desires, Vyrrak. Some, like you, independence, freedom, and love. For others, it’s revenge, proving themselves, or, simply, power. The difference between all of these small desires, and what the boy in front of you shows is that he’s at his core, as petty, as little, as human as it gets. But, Jacob Cloud funnels it into something… divine.” 

“What does that mean?” Vyrrak asks, confused. 

“You can’t explain faith to a deaf person,” the Headmaster smirks. 

Jacob screams again as Vyrrak takes a step forward, and the Headmaster’s hand closes on his shoulder.

“You cannot interfere,” the man says, and there is no humor left in his voice. “If you pull him out now, the spell will collapse halfway bonded, and it will finish killing him.”

Jacob’s scream fades into hoarse coughing as his body finally runs out of strength. 

It seems like he’s finally broken. 

“What now?! He’s dying! I don’t understand you’re telling me, grandfather!” 

“That boy,” the Headmaster continues, “has been challenged, hunted, dismissed, and used as a symbol since the day he was dragged out of a mine. Now that the world has decided he is weak, he is answering in the only way he knows how.”

“He’s about to die! What is even supposed to do?! How is he going to answer?!” 

“Do you know that Dragons say that those who die for others, those whose heart was at peace save for the worry for those whom they loved turn into bright, very bright stars that watch over their loved ones?” 

Vyrrak finds that his grandfather saying something so poetic but so meaningless like this is preposterous, but then, as he’s about to shout at the Headmaster, moments before Jacob is about to take his last breath, the man with gold spectacles points at the sky, where one lone star that Vyrrak never saw before shines so much until everything goes white for a moment.

When Vyrrak’s eyes can see again, he notices something changed inside the pillars.

Slowly, Jacob lifts his head, and for a moment his gaze clears as he looks at the firmament and raises a silvery sword toward the same star that blinded them. 

With one heart-rending shout, the pillars are drained of Mana, which slam all at once in Jacob’s body, tearing it apart, but also giving it more power than it ever had before. 

Jacob keeps shouting until the last pillar crumbles to dust and Vyrrak swallows.

“Let’s go,” the Headmaster says. “Hes’ going to come back soon. I want to give him some privacy now.” 

*

I’m absolutely sure of what I just felt.

It was King Baalrek’s Mana.

I don’t know if I just had an hallucination or what, but I felt King Baalrek helping me to my feet, guiding the Mana inside my body.

But he’s not here anymore.

Even in the aftermath of the Skill beeping in my head, telling me it was absorbed, I’m still only focused on that sensation. 

I look at the sword, which felt like a channel for that power, which I raised toward the star in the sky that shined so bright because it felt like it was empowering me. I barely got enough power from it to absorb the Skill without it killing me. But still, I can feel that my grasp on it is very faint.

What has just happened? I wonder.

But my string of thoughts is cut off as I see Vice Principal Caradoc walking toward me with a large bundle in his arms.

Seeing my quizzical expression, he points at the ground with his head.

“You shredded your old cloak.”

I look at the cloak I got at the very beginning of my journey and grimace.

It belonged to Orvick’s son, and old man Orvick gave it to me when I left Shit’s Creek. I guess it went through enough to be torn to shreds.

“I’m the only person who could access Baalrek’s old place. He didn’t really leave anything behind and you already have his sword, so there’s not much you could have looked forward anyway. The sword is pretty much the best thing he could have left you, but…” Vice Principal Caradoc seems a bit embarrassed—no, not embarrassed.

Is he emotional? I think to myself. 

“This,” he sniffs lightly, “belonged to him. It’s got enough enchantments to last against the worst of the worst. Usually, he would have passed it to his first son once he passed the throne down. But… he never got to.” 

I widen my eyes until they hurt as Vice Principal Caradoc hands me the bundle, which I take with shaking arms.

I slowly undo it and see a large cloak with blood-red runes on a dark brown thick fabric. He gestures for me to turn and then clasps it around my collarbone. 

It flutters around me in the dark night and I hug it closer to my body—not because of the cold. 

“How is it?” Vice Principal Caradoc says, passing a hand over his old eyes. 

“It’s…” 

“It suits you,” the old man says. “He would have never admitted it, knowing him, but it suits you.”

I look down at the cloak and I nod. 

“He would have hated it,” I smile, hugging the cloak tighter. 

“Many are going to try and rip it away from you,” Vice Principal Caradoc says. 

I slowly close my eyes and enter in contact with the Domain of Ruin and Bones, activating the Primordial Spell King Baalrek left me at the same time.

When I turn, there’s the shape of a skull painted over my face.

“They can try.”

This is to be considered the end of Book 3!

We start Book 4 tomorrow and we'll see what Class Jacob's built out of the Skills he's got!