Oz woke up. Reality crashed over him like an unexpected hangover, the pain in his soul and the lingering stiffness from healing in his body an immediate reminder of his situation, yet he was still pleased to have left his dreams behind.

  He was tempted to write off yesterday as a nightmare, but his actual dreams had been far stranger. He had been in a world of glass, panes held in place by grey stone and steel everywhere, and that was just the start. If it was not regular glass it was Illusion glass. These ‘screens’ were omnipresent. They appeared before him time and time again. Images of a thousand and one things that made no sense. Worse, when it turned off, going black and becoming a mirror, a face stared back. A face that was not his own. Watching him with eyes he could not meet.

  The person there was scrawny. It did not like how it looked. Even the memory of how it looked was picking itself apart. It was elven or beastkin in proportion, most like the human form of the couple of werewolves he had known in Greywater. Where Oz was tall and broad, this man was thin and short. He wore glasses, and his posture was one of puffed-up space, desperately trying to spread his meagre presence over as much space as possible.

  Oz felt a bone-deep envy from the Other. A sense that this was not how things were supposed to go, that it expected to be the one staring into the glass looking at a hybrid dwarf troll, wondering why they were so different.

  Oz sat up and swung his legs out of the bed, trying to stand to banish the strange sense that his body was two sizes too large. To ignore the desire to start fumbling for a pair of glasses he did not need.

  Something licked his arm. Then something else licked him. That chased away the last of the images from last night, his eyes slamming open. Two pairs of familiar amber eyes stared at him. Oz felt the magical bond pressing against him. Chops was back.

  Oz and the Other were not aligned on many things, but a love of dogs they could both agree on.

  Oz all but fell out of bed to gather Chops into his arms and pressed his face into the dog’s fur. Oz was not crying, not a chance, just a freak weather occurrence right round his eyes. Or allergies. Allergies locked to this specific moment.

  “That gave me a fright. I am pleased to see you are awake.” Lillian, the healer from last night, bustled through with that air of authority possessed by all medical staff. “Not half as pleased as he is though. He has been sitting by your side most of the morning. I normally do not allow animals on my ward, but familiars are an exception.”

  “How?” Oz managed to choke out past the lump in his throat.

  “The Archchancellor managed it. As the Keeper of Noxarcer he can work with your powers.” Oz just nodded. “Losing your connection to a familiar the first time is always rough. He thought it would help you.”

  “So this is still Chops?” Oz winced. He felt stupid asking a question that any normal student of this academy would already know, but he had never learned much about them. What he remembered of other summons was that some were random while others were consistent entities. He really did not want to be summoning random dogs to his side, it felt cruel.

  “Indeed, it is and will always be. He is tied to you now through the rest of your life. I am sure we can arrange a tutor to explain a few more details of what it means to be bonded, but so far treating him well and respecting him as his own entity is a great start. Now, Oz, is it? I understand you have had a rough time of it.” Lillian’s summary of the situation made Oz chuckle. ‘A rough time of it’ was an understatement.

  “Thank you, Miss Lillian. It does help.” Oz nodded to her.

  “None of that, you can call me Lily. Well, what is going to happen is we are going to do a few tests, then the Archchancellor and your guardian would like to speak to you, if you would like to speak with them.”

  “I get a choice?” Oz fumbled himself upright, noticing he was still in a medical gown. As he adjusted, no longer exhausted, he noticed that Lily was a beastfolk, heavily favouring a Kitsune heritage. Or rather the Other noticed. Oz had never been too bothered by people’s heritage, given that there was only one other dwarf and no other trolls in Greywater. He had always been different from everyone around him.

  The Other though was very invested in this sudden realisation. Oz felt his eyes wandering and grabbed his face with a hand. He did not know what kind of culture the Other came from, but you just did not stare at people’s tails.

  Oz was many things. He may have been violent, a troublesome student, and a general loner, but no one could ever accuse him of being a letch. Thankfully the healer did not seem to have noticed.

  “At least while you are my patient you do. I do not condone violence, but given your situation I can hardly blame you. That said, Venna seems genuinely to want the best for you, even if she is going about it like a damn fool. I doubt she gets much time around the young. Now—why have you got your hand over your eyes?” Lily’s voice demanded an answer, and Oz desperately searched for one which allowed him to retain some dignity.

  “Sorry Miss, having some problems with the Other this morning. Found it a bit overwhelming.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Hmm, is it trying to exert control over you?” Her voice was sharp again, and he hurried to explain.

  “No, maybe. It is more like… Look, it is.” Oz sucked in a deep breath. He tried to channel that military mindset he had been aiming for, given the original plan for the rangers. See this like a report.

  “I have picked up some interests. Things that did not used to interest me suddenly do.”

  “Like what?” Her question stumped him. He was not about to say that part of his brain was petitioning to pet her tail.

  “Look, I think that the soul might have been kitsune, a male kitsune specifically.” Oz fumbled through.

  “What do—Ah! I understand. Alright, I will try not to be offended then, please open your eyes.”

  “Grit! I did not mean to.” Oz cursed as his eyes immediately flicked up to stare at Lily’s ears. After a moment of struggle he got them back to meeting her eyes, to find a faint smile on her lips.

  “Let us get you dressed and fed, and then we will get you to Aldo—the Archchancellor.” She explained. Oz nodded, and began to look through the box of clothes, which was whatever he had been wearing when he was poisoned yesterday plus a couple of sets of the uniform.

  The first to go on were his clan-wraps. The charcoal grey fabric was wrapped around both his arms. It was a long tradition in dwarven society, the highly slash-resistant fabric stopping the sharp stone of the tunnels from cutting them, and helping to no end in protecting them from the occasional beast found in the depths.

  It was relaxing wrapping the fabric round his arms. It took care and effort to properly layer it and ensure the skin was properly covered before anchoring them by wrapping them round his chest. The fabric was smooth and silky yet gripped itself like glue, ensuring it all stayed in place. His wraps were also lightly enchanted for durability and to keep him cool. No one liked sweaty arms.

  [Hoodlum has exceptional conductivity with Clan Wraps]

  The pop-up made him worry. It was good that it liked the clan-wraps so much, but it made him worry about the rest of his clothes. Would he be stuck deciding what he wore based on [Hoodlum] for ever more? He looked over his clothes from home that were waiting for him. A pair of heavy-duty dungarees, a hard-wearing linen shirt, and his fleeced leather jacket. The Other told him not to hold his breath.

  [Hoodlum has negligible conductivity with Dungarees]

  [Hoodlum has middling conductivity with Darned Shirt]

  [Hoodlum has good conductivity with Fleece lined jacket]

  He let out a sigh. That went better than expected. He could have guessed that the dungarees would not go down well with the delinquent style. He did not really want to change into the uniform, he felt uncomfortable just looking at it. It was not exactly associated with happy memories.

  In the jacket he checked the pockets and the lining, finding everything where he had hidden it. The skill gems his father had passed down, as well as his medal, were all securely where he had stitched them into the lining. Then he checked his pockets. Nothing was touched. His rune scribe was in its pouch, and his wallet still had the cash in it. That eased his soul, though the Other, who had been quiet since embarrassing him earlier, finally popped up.

  Oz was trying to ignore that the last time he had worn this outfit someone had tried to poison him. The Other was not so relaxed. It started to point out that whoever had done the deed had not robbed him. If they did not want his stuff, what did they want?

  Oz ignored the thoughts. It was not important right now. What was important was his knife. He buckled on his belt and slid the sheath into place so he could draw the runed blade he had worked on for months. Hacking it out of a chunk of obsidian he had found in Greywater, which was built in mountains that were once a hub of volcanic activity.

  [Hoodlum has good conductivity with Obsidian Rune Knife]

  Oz let out a sigh of relief so deep that Chops came over and licked his fingers. The conductivity could have been better, but it could have been so much worse. Maybe a bit of Vandal could help? Though he would be doing a lot of experimenting before turning that power on his clan knife. He turned the blade over in his hands, the weight of it familiar but somehow heavier now—his new power running through the runes, making it feel like the weapon had grown in the time they had been apart.

  His enhanced awareness meant he could see the power of his runes flowing under the leather wrapped round the handle. Three primes, two threes and a five. The combined power was enough to keep the blade sturdy despite the delicate obsidian, while offering plenty of tricks to surprise any opponents.

  The obsidian gleamed a deep volcanic black, not glossy like glass, but alive with shifting angles, each knapped facet catching the light in flickering lines like the ripples of heat above a forge. He ran a thumb along the edge—touch very delicate, the sharpness rune and the obsidian edge meant the cutting edge offered no mercy.

  The Other tried to call it a kukri, but the image that flashed up with the word irritated Oz. That was clearly a steel blade design. This was a stone blade, very different. A dwarven knife was different. The curve was stouter, squatter—less edge and more axe-like. A heavy, forward-leaning arc, as if the blade was already falling into the next cut. It was meant to split as much as slice. Near the tip, the edge narrowed again, not to a point but to a chisel-blunt angle, made for carving, for breaching, for breaking things that thought themselves unbreakable.

  The knapping was deliberate, layered rows of fractured ridges carved in a chevron pattern down both faces of the blade. Not decorative, directional. Each shard flake angled inward, drawing the eye toward the core of the blade, toward its purpose. Oz could almost hear the rhythm of the blows he had used to shape it, each strike recorded in stone like a fossilised heartbeat.

  No line was perfectly straight, no facet flawless. That was the point. The imperfection gave it strength, just enough unevenness to catch, to grip, to bite.

  Oz let out a breath he had not realised he was holding. The blade was back. Whole. Ready.

  Just like him.