Chương 257: Chapter 252

The common dorm is pretty quiet. But in the wrong way. It is late evening. The torches along the walls have burned low, casting everything in amber and long shadow. Most students are in their bunks or sitting on the edges of their beds, but no one is sleeping. Jacob is sitting on the floor near the far wall with his back against the stone, talking to Lancelot. His voice is low enough that only Lancelot can hear it.

"—and the rest of the traps are already in place," Jacob finishes. Lancelot nods. His sharp cheekbones catch the torchlight and his expression is serious in a way that still looks slightly unnatural on him—like a dog trying to look dignified.

"Boss, is there anything I can do? Right now, I mean."

"You'll do exactly what we discussed," Jacob says.

"When the time comes, Lancelot. Don't fret. It's just one more night.." Lancelot opens his mouth, closes it, nods again. He wants to say something else. He does not. Jacob notices.

"What?"

"Nothing, Boss. Just—" Lancelot shifts his weight.

"I'll be ready." Jacob looks at him for a moment longer than necessary, and then he nods once. The dorm is full of people pretending not to watch them. Jacob can feel every single pair of eyes in the room. They land on him and slide away the moment he glances in their direction — the nervous, furtive attention of people who have heard the news and are trying to decide if the man sitting on the floor is enough. The spectre's words are still in the air. Tomorrow.

The Dark Champions of Asmodeus arrive at Ytrial Academy. A girl two bunks over has her knees pulled to her chest. A boy near the entrance is sharpening a blade. Three students in the far corner are whispering — they stop when Jacob's gaze passes over them, and they start again when it moves on. None of them approach. None of them ask. They are waiting to see if he is afraid. He is not. And that's a big comfort to the entire dorm. The dorm entrance shifts. Vyrrak ducks through the frame.

His massive Dragonkin frame fills the doorway for a moment before he steps inside, and the students nearest to the door pull their feet in instinctively. His eyes find Jacob immediately.

"I need to talk to you," Vyrrak says. Jacob reads him in less than a second. The Dragonkin's jaw is tight. His breathing is slightly faster than normal. His tail — which Vyrrak keeps perfectly still in public as a point of discipline — has the faintest twitch at the tip. Vyrrak has learned something, and he is not sure Jacob can take it.

"Lancelot," Jacob says, without looking away from Vyrrak.

"Get some sleep."

"I'm not tired, Bo—""Lancelot."

"... Right. Sleeping. Immediately." Lancelot stands, gives Vyrrak a nod that the Dragonkin returns, and walks toward his bunk with the exaggerated casualness of someone who knows he is being dismissed and is trying very hard to be graceful about it. Jacob stands. He tilts his head toward the door. They walk out into the courtyard together.

The night air is cold. The training courtyard is empty — the grass still damp from the evening, the stone benches along the perimeter dark and vacant. The arena is a distant shape against the sky, lit from within by the maintenance torches that never go out. Jacob stops near the center. Far enough from the building and with enough artifacts on Vyrrak that no Skill could pick up their voices. Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators! Vyrrak stops across from him.

"My father told me something," Vyrrak says. Jacob waits. Vyrrak exhales through his nose. He is trying to find the right approach — Jacob can see him sorting through options the way Dragonkin do, with that particular tilt of the head, the slight narrowing of the draconic eyes.

"The Prophet," Vyrrak says.

"The one leading the Dark Champions. My father's intelligence says he's connected to you." Jacob's expression does not change.

"Connected how?"

"He's Baalrek's son." Silence. The name settles between them. Jacob does not move. His hands stay at his sides. His breathing does not change. But something behind his eyes shifts. It's like a door opening and closing very quickly. His son is leading the monsters that arrive tomorrow.

"What else does your father know?" Jacob asks. His voice is level. Vyrrak blinks. He has been bracing for a reaction — a flinch, a tightened jaw, something. The absence of it is almost worse.

"Surprisingly little," Vyrrak admits.

"The Prophet has been operating in the shadows for years. My father's network could only confirm the bloodline and that he's amassed immense power."

"Immense power," Jacob repeats, and the words are flat in a way that suggests he is filing the information rather than reacting to it.

"Jacob."

"What?"

"You're doing the thing where you don't react and it makes everyone around you more nervous." The corner of Jacob's mouth twitches. It is not quite a smile.

"The plan doesn't change," Jacob says.

"I figured." Vyrrak crosses his arms.

"The other Champions are getting restless."

"It's normal."

"And?"

"And nothing, Vyrrak. This is the only way we win. The Dark Champions are still too much for anybody but me and you. Well, I'll need to cheat a bit to win against Nimirea. So, in a way, you're the only who's ready." Vyrrak nods slowly. He uncrosses his arms, crosses them again. There is something else.

"What about Iskara?" The shift is immediate. Jacob's eyes change. The calm, analytical distance cracks. But then it is gone almost before Vyrrak registers it.

"Iskara made her choice," Jacob says slowly. Vyrrak has the good sense not to push.

"Do you think we'll fight her as well?"

"Do you think Nimirea would miss on such an opportunity to unsettle me?" Jacob asks rhetorically, rubbing his face tiredly. They stand in the courtyard. The wind carries the faint smell of the arena's stone and the distant sounds of the Academy settling into night.

"Tomorrow, then," Vyrrak says, patting Jacob's shoulder.

"Tomorrow." Vyrrak turns to leave. He takes three steps and stops.

"Jacob."

"What?" The Dragonkin looks back over his shoulder.

"My father came a long way to warn me. He said karma greater than we can imagine is descending on our generation." A pause.

"I don't care about karma. But I thought you should know that even the Dragonkin courts are worried, apparently. Make of that what you will." Jacob looks at his friend.

"Thank goodness I'm not a Dragonkin, then," Jacob smiles. Vyrrak holds his gaze for a moment, then laughs, shaking his head, and walks into the dark.

Jacob stands alone in the courtyard for a while. The cold does not bother him. The dark does not bother him. King Baalrek's son. He lets the thought sit. He lets it rest in the space where Baalrek's voice used to always appear in his mind. What would you think of him? Jacob wonders. What would you think of what your son became? No answer. There hasn't been one for a while now. Jacob walks back toward the dorm. When he steps through the entrance, the room is the same.

The torches are lower but no one is sleeping other than a Lancelot who just opened an eye to check on Jacob and immediately closed it after, faking the sleep. But now the room is not pretending not to watch. They are watching him openly. Every face in the room is turned toward the door. Jacob looks at them. Not at any one of them — at all of them. The ones sitting up in their bunks, the ones on the floor, the ones who have been pretending to sleep and have given up the pretense. They are students.

Most of them are Gold Ranked. A few are Platinum. None of them are Champions, or warriors, or heroes. They are teenagers in a dormitory on the night before the worst thing any of them can imagine walks through the Academy gates. And they are looking at him. Not with the furtive, sliding glances from before. With something quieter and heavier. They watched him leave and come back. That, somehow, has made them... nervous. Did they think I was going to run or something? Jacob does not say anything.

He walks to his bunk, sits on the edge, and begins removing his boots. Lancelot, who is very obviously not sleeping, opens one eye.

"Boss?"

"Go to sleep, Lancelot."

"Right." A pause.

"Boss?"

"What."

"We're going to win, right?" Jacob sets his boots beside the bed. He looks at Lancelot, and then at the rest of the room.

"Yes," Jacob says to everybody.

"We're going to absolutely smash them." And in the quiet dark, every student in the room hears it and sighs in relief. Now, they can sleep