Greta burst through the doors first, Myrda right behind her, Randall trailing last and already complaining. The moment the door slammed against the wall, the smell of burnt mana rushed past them like a warning. The air still shimmered from the failed spell, glittering with unstable residue that made my skin prickle.

  I was on the floor, half?sprawled across Oliver’s convulsing body, my knees planted on either side of him as I shoved my palms into his chest again and again. My staff was on the ground. I had thrown it aside the instant his throat collapsed, because nothing mattered except keeping him alive. I kept yelling Greta’s name between compressions, voice cracking from panic. I thought if I just pushed hard enough, fast enough, I could force air back into him. That was what healers did, right. Chest compressions. Keep the air moving.

  Except that was not how you saved someone whose airway had imploded. His throat was crushed. Every time I drove my hands down, more ribs cracked under the force. I could feel bone shifting beneath my palms. I could hear it. But if I stopped, I would have had to face the truth that I might have killed a child with my own hands, and I could not bear that thought.

  So, I kept slamming his chest while screaming for Greta, praying she would get here before he died.

  Greta saw all of that in an instant.

  She did not hesitate. She dropped to her knees beside him with the precision of someone who had saved a hundred idiots from killing themselves. Her sharp nail sliced a neat, practiced hole into the side of Oliver’s throat. He made a wet, choking sound that would have rattled me if I had not been too busy staying furious.

  Greta uncorked a potion with her teeth and poured the entire thing straight into the wound. Red liquid seeped into the torn flesh, glowing brighter as it reached the collapsing airway.

  Oliver’s back arched off the floor. A strangled gasp tore out of him, the kind of desperate, animal gasp you hear from someone hauled out of drowning water.

  Then he passed out instantly from the pain.

  Greta wiped her hands on her pants and exhaled. “He will live.”

  Randall let out a shrill sound, halfway between outrage and a gasp, and somehow managed to look directly past every coughing, burned, shaking child in the room as if they were invisible. His eyes locked only on Oliver. “What in all hells happened to my precious goldmine… I mean my trainee. What did the Beast do to him.”

  Meka flinched behind me. Not because she had done anything wrong, but because she expected to be blamed for breathing wrong. My grip tightened around my staff.

  “Meka did nothing,” I snapped. “Oliver tried to cast a fourth level firestorm indoors.”

  She turned to me immediately, eyes sharp but softened at the edges. “I am sorry I did not get here earlier,” she said. “Firestorm in a closed room would have killed every single person in this building. You did the right thing.”

  Randall blinked owlishly, squinting as though I had spoken in arcane code. “Do not be ridiculous. He must have attempted a Flamespark. Nothing dangerous. Barely enough to singe a sleeve.”

  I stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until he had to tilt his head down to look at me. “I saw the spell form with my own eyes. It was a Firestorm and Wildly unstable. You taught a noble brat a spell powerful enough to level this building, and then you walked out and left them alone.”

  My voice rose before I could stop it. “You did this. You, you incompetent fraud.”

  Myrda whistled low. “Damn, Runt. Want to help me write the report? Seems like you have a lot worth reporting.”

  Randall made a dismissive noise and waved a hand at her like she was a fly. “Do not listen to the child. He knows nothing of magic. And what are you even doing in the magic hall. You are a martial trainee. This area is restricted.”

  “I am a Guild member,” I said. “I know my rights. The training halls are open to Guild members when not in scheduled use. I have read the regulations front to back. You clearly have not.”

  Greta crossed her arms. “Also, Randall, the Runt here is a reincarnator. He was a wizard in his last life. Apparently.”

  Randall gaped like a stunned fish. “Impossible. There is not a single drop of mana in him.”

  Myrda groaned. Loudly. “Randall, by all gods, have you never learned the Third Law of Reincarnation. Whatever you were in your past life does not determine what you are born with in the next. Your mana, your strength, your talents do not determine who you will be in the next. Everyone knows this.”

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  Greta jabbed a thumb toward me. “The Guild knows about him. Why do you think he is in my class at that age.”

  Randall sniffed, straightening his robe as if his dignity was made of fabric. “Well, regardless of his history, he assaulted one of my trainees. Duke Clermont will be furious when he hears what was done to his son. So, Runt, do you want to continue with these accusations, or shall we let this incident go and call it even.” He lifted his chin. “File your report if it will make you feel better. It will not trouble me in the slightest. I am protected.”

  I stared dead into his eyes. “I do not care about your incompetence, Randall.” I turned toward the exit. “Come along, Meka.”

  Meka hurried after me immediately, clutching her leafy-eared bunny like it was a shield.

  And then Randall made the mistake of actually looking at her.

  His eyes widened. “Wait, wait, how did you get a familiar that is far to complicated a working for one so amateurish as you Beast.”

  Meka brightened instantly. “Instructor Runt taught me! He is the best! Also, I think Oliver peed himself.”

  Randall looked down at Oliver’s unconscious form. A spreading, unmistakable stain confirmed the truth.

  He shrieked. “Oh gods, dear Oliver, what did that barbarian do to you. We must get you cleaned up immediately!”

  He hoisted Oliver up like a sack of grain, upside down, and sprinted for the door.

  Myrda blinked slowly. “Should… should we tell him he is holding Oliver wrong.”

  Greta shrugged. “He will notice when Oliver’s hat falls off.”

  Oliver’s hat fell off.

  Myrda sighed. “There it is.”

  Her gaze swept the rest of the children, dazed, coughing, wide-eyed, completely ignored by Randall. “Right,” she muttered. “I’ll take the rest of them to the healer before someone pretends they aren’t injured.”

  Greta nudged my shoulder with her boot, a small but deliberate gesture. “You did the right thing, Runt. You saved lives today. That is what good adventures do.”

  I looked around the hall. Scorched walls spiderwebbed with heat cracks. Stone shattered where spells had detonated. Charred marks on the ceiling, blackened circles on the floor, mana residue drifting like dust motes. A classroom for children that had nearly become a tomb.

  “I know,” I said quietly.

  My legs felt strange as I walked, a mix of adrenaline, leftover fury, and exhaustion. Meka stayed close behind me, her hooves clicking softly against the stone floor. She was still hugging her bunny as tightly as ever, but the trembling had faded. Now she simply looked… relieved. Safe.

  We stepped into the corridor. The noise of Randall shrieking down the hall bounced off the stone and faded behind us. The air out here felt calmer, cooler, cleaner.

  Meka walked up beside me, her voice barely above a whisper. “Instructor Runt… thank you.”

  I glanced up at her. “For what.”

  She hesitated, then spoke with the kind of honesty only children manage. “For protecting me.”

  I slowed my steps. In my old life, apprentices lied, hid their mistakes, tried to curry favor. Here was this tiny minotaur girl thanking me just because I told the truth.

  “You did nothing wrong,” I said. “You in no way harmed any of them. And even if you did, Randall is the one responsible.”

  Her ears perked with cautious hope. “You mean that.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You are my apprentice. I am not letting anyone treat you like that.”

  She blinked rapidly, eyes shining. She looked like she might cry but was trying very hard not to.

  We turned a corner. The halls were quiet at this hour. Lamps glowed softly. The Guild’s nightly hum, the sound of enchantments resting, settled comfortably into the background.

  “You know,” I said, “you showed good instincts today.”

  Meka glanced at me in confusion. “I just stood still.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “You did not panic. You did not rush in. You listened when I told you not to engage.”

  She shuffled her hooves. “But I wanted to help…”

  “I know you did.” I smiled. “That is why you will be a good wizard one day.”

  Her breath caught. “Randall said I could not.”

  “Randall,” I said, “is a professional embarrassment.”

  She giggled, actual giggling, soft and light, and the tension in her shoulders finally melted.

  We kept walking. Greta caught up behind us after a few moments, stretching her arms like she had just returned from lifting a wagon.

  “Runt,” she said, “next time someone tries to cast a firestorm, shout louder.”

  “I did shout,” I said.

  “I meant at me,” she said. “So, I get here before you resort to trachea-colapsing violence.”

  “That was controlled violence,” I corrected.

  She snorted. “Right. Next time, try not to terrify Myrda. She thought she was walking into a massacre.”

  Meka lifted her bunny. “It was scary…”

  Greta ruffled her hair gently. “But you handled it well. And you did good work today, Meka.”

  Meka practically glowed.

  We reached the branching hallway that led toward the martial dorms. Myrda was waiting there, arms crossed, expression somewhere between exhausted and deeply entertained.

  “Randall is still screaming down the other hall,” she said. “He ran past three trainees and scared them half to death.”

  Greta rolled her eyes. “Of course he did.”

  Myrda looked at me. “You handled yourself well. Not many children your age would have reacted quickly enough to stop that spell.”

  “I had to,” I said. “If that spell went off, nobody would have survived. Not even Oliver.”

  Myrda nodded. “You acted decisively. The report will reflect that.”

  Greta smirked. “And Randall’s part will be… educational.”

  “Very,” Myrda agreed. “I am including diagrams.”

  I blinked. “Diagrams.”

  “Yes,” Myrda said. “Primarily of what a responsible magic instructor is supposed to do.”

  “That seems… problematic,” I said.

  “That is the point,” Greta replied.

  The adults drifted into their own conversation, talking about paperwork, Guild protocol, damage reports, the cost of replacing destroyed classroom wards. Meka and I stood slightly apart.

  She fidgeted. “Instructor Runt… will Randall be angry at me.”

  “Yes,” I said honestly. “But that does not matter.”

  She stared at me. “Why not.”

  “Because now,” I said, “you are under Greta’s protection. And…” I lifted my staff just a little “mine.”

  Her tail flicked once in relief.

  Eventually, Greta patted my shoulder. "Come on, Runt. Let us get you cleaned up. You smell like burnt arrogance and failed spellwork."

  "You're just smelling where Randall was a moment ago," I said.

  Greta barked a laugh. Myrda nearly choked trying to hide hers.

  We continued down the hall together, Meka, Greta, Myrda, and I, leaving the ruined training room, the burned air, and Randall’s distant shrieking behind us.