36. Mission (Patreon)

The late‑morning sun slanted through the tall windows of the grand lecture hall, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the stale air. Professor Yorth Vale stood behind the polished oak lectern, his posture rigid, robes immaculate. He let the murmurs of the First Years fade into tense silence before speaking.

“Missions,” he began, voice measured and resonant, “are not mere extracurricular exercises. They are official commissions issued to this Academy by every stratum of our society—commoners seeking missing livestock, merchant caravans requesting guard detail, even noble houses requiring discreet intelligence-gathering. Each request arrives here first, from simple scouts to contracts for bandit or beast subjugation. We accept them because this institution exists not only to educate, but to serve the Seluvian Empire.”

A map of Eldoria unrolled itself behind him, pins marking the flood of past missions. Thousands of colored threads wove between city‐states and frontier outposts.

“Your participation in these tasks is part of the Academy’s core curriculum,” Yorth continued, flicking a hand at the display. “From your first winter to your final year, missions shape your growth. First Years receive only the lower‐risk assignments—surveys of overgrown ruins, escorting threatened caravans. Yet do not mistake ‘easier’ for ‘safe.’ Even in past seasons, students have suffered permanent injury, and some have died. Complacency here is fatal.”

A hush fell across the room, punctuated only by the distant clang of armor from the knights patrolling the hallway.

“Why does the Academy entrust students—candidates and Eldorian alike—with these commissions, rather than dispatch seasoned veterans? Because this crucible forges more than skill: it instills initiative, hones teamwork, and binds you to the realm you defend. Senior students and pprofessors are bound by their own obligations; they undertake the highest‐priority missions themselves. You, our juniors, learn by stepping into the breach.”

A dozen first‐year faces tightened at the weight of expectation.

“Rest assured, you are not the only ones tested. Councilors and tutors answer commissions from the Crown in times of strain. You begin with the most manageable tasks so you understand the gravity of your trade. As you progress, your contracts will grow in complexity. Some will remain simple scouting duties; others will escalate to vanquishing marauding warbands or purging corrupted arcanum. Each mission pays sils and adds to your final assessment—and grants crucial grade points.”

He paused, allowing the implication to sink in: a chance to earn both wealth and academic standing, regardless of one’s sponsorship.

“Unlike terrestrial schools, we have no semester exams or final writs. Assessments here are built on action: mock trials in the arena, and real‐world missions. Your reputation, both within the Academy and across the Empire, hinges on what you accomplish beyond these walls. A successful commission can elevate your ranking, earn you sponsorship from influential patrons—even secure a coveted position in the Royal Guard.”

Murmurs of ambition rippled through the benches.

“Yet not every mission is a straightforward hunt. Tension between noble houses can bleed into our contracts: delicate peace negotiations, covert surveillance of potential power plays. To preserve impartiality, those from houses with overt political stakes must adopt disguises—new names, new accents. Candidates from other worlds, however, operate unbound by such constraints. You represent no home court; your loyalty lies with your team and the Academy alone.”

Eyes flickered across the room. Luke felt his pulse quicken.

“Assignments are never solo endeavors,” Professor Vale declared, voice rising. “You will be grouped in teams, your composition decided randomly. Random enough to prevent favoritism, computed to foster synergy. You will learn to trust—and challenge—comrades from beyond your friend circles. Coordination, after all, defines victory just as much as individual prowess.”

He gestured to a towering crystal prism at the dais’s edge, runes flickering in response.

“With hundreds of missions flowing through the Academy each month, you offering your services not only relieves burden on the Crown’s legions—allowing them to focus on border security and diplomatic concerns—but also grants invaluable field experience. Commoner and unsponsored candidates, those without noble backing, gain sils when coin is scarce; those of modest means can fund their own training. And for sponsored candidates, every expedition deepens your understanding of Eldoria’s land, its peoples, and its hidden perils.”

The hall fell silent, the enormity of the system laid bare.

“Finally,” Yorth said, voice firm. “Each team will depart in small groups. Once your wristbands are activated, your mentors’ involvement becomes minimal—unless calamity demands direct intervention. You will carry magical comm‑sigils to coordinate and summon aid if needed. Most early missions are ranked at the ‘Low’ level, designed for well‐balanced parties to overcome safely. But remember: things change in the field. Stay vigilant, support one another, and never underestimate the unexpected.”

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Professor Yorth Vale stood at the front of the hall, eyes scanning the assembled first years with that same placid intensity he always wore before issuing a challenge. “Teams will be formed now,” he said, voice even. “When I call your name, come forward in fives. Assistants will brief each group in turn. Stanley… Marabelle… Kent… Jiro… Selena.” A ripple of movement followed as the first five stepped into the spotlight. Names continued to fall like stones, echoing through the vaulted room: “Thorne… Malia… Orrin… Vexa… Joran… Pasha… Rion… Daelin…” until Yorth’s gaze finally found the students who had been listening so closely: “Luke Raynott.”

A hush fell across the hall since the missions were announced, broken only by the soft shuffle of students stepping into the aisle when their names were called. Luke rose from his seat, hands folding automatically behind his back. Vale’s expression betrayed no hint of favoritism or mischief—but Luke’s stomach kicked as he recognized the names Vale continued: “Alice Winterheart… Lilith Grinmaw… Kai Feldorn… Damian Atredius.”

A quiet curse formed on the tip of Luke’s tongue, but he kept his features neutral, as befitted of an academy student. Outside the circle of light at the front, students exchanged glances—some pity, others barely concealed relief that they weren’t in this group. Luke’s eyes flicked to the professor, measuring him. The team assignments were supposed to be random. Yet here he was, paired with Lilith Grinmaw, the fiend whose presence had turned half the class into snide whisperers, alongside him—someone who had never flinched back when her horns and crimson skin first walked through the door. He couldn’t hide the faint narrowing of his eyes. Vale met that glance for a moment, then looked away.

Luke stepped forward to join the others. Alice Winterheart moved beside him, expression composed and cool; her impassive gaze met his for a fraction of a second, then slid away. Damian Atredius followed, purple hair trailing behind him like a shadow, a slow, serpentine smile curling his lips as he caught Luke’s eye and gave a mocking nod. Kai Feldorn came next: a squat figure who looked far younger than the rest, his dirt-blonde hair tousled and cheeks ruddy, but with a polite nod to Luke that betrayed more anxiety than confidence. Last was Lilith Grinmaw, who drifted forward with feline grace, every step measured, her unblinking gaze fixed on the front. As they fell into a loose semicircle, Luke’s heart thumped against his ribs.

Alice glanced at the dwarf next to her—Kai, no doubt—then at Damian, shrugging subtly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was as inscrutable as ever. Luke remembered their shared journey to the academy, a fleeting moment of forced small talk in a compartment. He wondered if, now that they were on the field, she’d open up at all. They had never once talked ever since the academic year started after all. 

Lilith leaned back on her ankles, arms folded, expression unreadable. She hadn’t said a word since Vale summoned them. A few of the students who remained in their seats shot daggers of disgust toward her horns or the faint ridges on her collarbone—ritualistic marks, Luke had once read—yet she remained perfectly relaxed, as though immune to scorn. Something about that set his teeth on edge; he’d never quite known whether to trust her or treat her as a problem to solve.

Kai’s glance flitted between them, and Luke offered the dwarf a small, encouraging nod. The boy’s lips quivered, and he cleared his throat. Luke was curious about his party’s healer—dwarves rarely took that role, preferring forging or heavy combat according to their race’s high affinity with fire. Kai looked to be about an adolescent teen, but the shaved stubble on his chin gave away his real age.

Finally Luke’s own gaze settled on Damian, the troublemaking noble whose amusement at Luke’s expense had been a constant thorn in his side. Damian’s eyes gleamed beneath dark lashes as he offered a delicate wave—mocking courtesy, Luke was certain. It was time to set the record straight. He forced his shoulders down, relaxing the tension Vale’s pairing had triggered.

A tapping cleared the assistants’ line. A young assistant professor—Messina Colt, a third‑year with pale hair pulled into a messy bun and spectacles tipping off her nose—stepped forward. Her dark circles spoke of late nights and endless paperwork. She held a stack of parchment scrolls tied with crimson ribbons. When the group of five fell silent, she lifted one and addressed them.

“Group Nine, code: Ghost Stride,” she announced, voice thick but firm. “These scrolls contain your mission overview and objectives. Read them carefully. You will select a team leader among yourselves. I am your assistant coordinator; Assistant Professors Cornette and Valletta will provide terrain intel. Questions come after the briefing.”

She handed each of them a scroll. Luke’s fingers brushed Lilith’s as they both took theirs, and for a flicker of a heartbeat, they locked eyes—hers amused, his cautious. The others accepted theirs too. Messina’s gaze swept them. “Once you remove the seals, details are yours to review. You depart at first light—prepare gear tonight. Understood?”

Alice gave a crisp nod. Damian smirked and said, “Understood,” a silky menace to his tone. Kai swallowed visibly, voice catching as he managed a “Yes.” Lilith merely inclined her head, horns drawing an almost imperceptible shadow over her lids. Luke opened his mouth, then shut it. He would deal with questions later.

Messina motioned to a lectern behind her where two senior assistants waited, maps and tablets in hand. “Professors Cornette and Valletta will now go over the mission specifics. This mission involves a missing trade caravan in the Icefang Ridges—a straightforward investigation, but remember the first‑year rule: no solo heroics. Observe, report, and retreat if you encounter corruption beyond your scope.”

Cornette, a stern man with streaked hair and a hawk nose, snapped open a weathered chart showing the Whiteny Viscounty border and the glacial passes beyond. He tapped a jagged line. “Six days ago, caravan Helstrom vanished. No distress signals, no wreckage. Trail ends three days ago at this ridge.” His fingertip shivered over a narrow white cleft on the map. “Your objectives: locate any survivors or intel—meaning route logs, journals, cargo manifests—then secure them and return. Although it’s unlikely, if you note magic corruption or demonic energy residues—do not engage. Mark the location with your signal flags and retreat.”

Valletta, tall and precise with braided hair and rune-etched gauntlets, distributed packets detailing local hazards: avalanche zones, ice‑fang vipers, drift illusions. “Temperatures dip to minus twenty at night. Carry spare pelts.” She tapped his chest. “A few nights of exposure in the wrong place and you won’t live to report back.”

Luke’s knuckles whitened around the scroll. His gaze flicked from Cornette’s map to Alice’s unreadable profile, then to Lilith’s relaxed stance—unfazed by any of this. He had no illusions about snow dangers, but Cornette’s mention of demonic taint made his gut clench. If this caravan had been wiped out by normal bandits or a crevasse, fine. But demonic influences were beyond first years.

Messina’s voice snapped them back. She produced a small crystalline scroll. Mana light pulsed within it. “This is a Teleport Scroll—single use, max radius five hundred miles. All five of you must channel it simultaneously. If you find yourselves outmatched—ambushed by warbeasts, trapped by ice, or overwhelmed by dark rites—activate it together. You will return to the courtyard portal immediately. Use it wisely.”

She laid it into Luke’s hand, then settled it gently into Damian’s, Alice’s, Lilith’s, and Kai’s in turn. He felt the hum of its sealing magic under his palm. Messina raised her voice. “That is your emergency line. No further supplies, no further warnings. Gather your equipment, rest where you can, and be at the arch at dawn. Good luck.”

Nobody raised a hand—no one dared. They each departed under Vale’s unspoken watch, heading toward the gear rooms and their dorms. Luke lingered for just a second, glancing at Lilith as she strode away. She met his gaze unflinchingly, that slight curl of amusement still there. 

Kai fell into step beside him, eyes wide. “Raynott… do you think we can actually do this?” his voice trembled like a candle in the wind.

Luke offered him a steady nod, rapping his knuckles against the Teleport Scroll’s crystal. “We have to. It’s not just about grades. People might still be alive out there.” He paused, swallowing. “And if it gets out of hand, we have the teleport scrolls.”

Kai let out a shaky breath, form straightening. “Right. I—I can do that.”

Luke nodded again, eyes bright. “Good. I’ll see you at dawn.”

As they parted, Lilith’s mischievous low voice drifted to his ears: “You should read your mission details early. I hear they hide the worst stuff in the footnotes.”

A laugh threatened to burst from Luke’s chest. Better than silence, he thought. “Thanks for the warning.”

She vanished around the corner, and Luke realized he had no idea why Sylvie Redfern had sent Lilith to the academy, or why she had sent him a letter. He still hadn’t opened it, intending to open it in the safety of his dorm, away from prying eyes. For now, though, there was no time. The mission awaited—and tomorrow, when the dawn light touched the arches of the courtyard, the real test would begin.