The office of the Archchancellor sat at the rear of the main building, perched like the forecastle of a grand ship made of stone and bureaucracy. It jutted from the most spired, gargoyle-infested part of the Academy, providing unparalleled views of the campus. Though the dungeon beneath had twisted and shifted over millennia, the architecture always remained ancient, ancient in a way that demanded awe, not laughter.

  Inside, the walls were lined with portraits of graduating classes, a visual record stretching back centuries. Even the title of Archchancellor hadn’t always existed, they used to be called “Vice Chancellors”, before Archwitch Augusta famously refused the role unless it came with a discretionary budget for “drugs and prostitutes”. The title stuck. So did the budget.

  It was an intimidating space. Students only ended up here if they were doing exceptionally well or disastrously poorly.

  Oz sat stiffly on a leather-upholstered sofa, wearing his battered dungarees and old jacket, trying not to look like a kid who'd wandered into the wrong shop. Chops sat beside him, unusually still, picking up on his master's unease.

  Even the Other, with his memories of palaces of glass and golden staircases, had gone unusually quiet.

  Oz kept his eyes moving, pretending to admire the art. Many years ago, he’d dreamed of being an artist, a dream that had dried up like everything else in the cultural desert of the scab-lands. Nobody in Greywater talked about art unless it involved a scantily clad woman painted on the side of an aether-truck.

  They could talk about that for weeks.

  Still, the changing artistic styles in the portraits were oddly fascinating. Centuries of fashion shifts, changing materials, brush techniques, it was a kind of time travel, and enough to distract him until the door finally opened.

  Archchancellor Aldomere Brackham entered the side room with the calm authority of someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to get attention. He was tall, elegant, with a vaguely elven cast to his vampiric features, though his ears lacked the telltale points. He had the tired eyes of someone who’d been up all night squinting at paperwork in the hope it would disappear.

  “Thanks for waiting,” Brackham said, voice warm but weary.

  Oz stood awkwardly. “Thanks for getting Chops back, Archchancellor. And, uh, helping with the soul situation. Miss Lily described just how bad Ambrosia can be, if you hadn’t stepped in. If I owe you anything—”

  Brackham waved it off. “You owe me nothing, Mr Grimbrow. You were brought here against your will, after suffering a grievous assault. I helped because it was right, and at Venna’s request.”

  He gestured towards a seat and sat opposite Oz, folding his long fingers in his lap.

  “But rather than debts, I’d rather talk about what comes next. Specifically, how well you performed in the Gauntlet.”

  Oz gave a non-committal shrug. “I’m not sure ‘on fire and limping’ counts as doing well.”

  “You’re the first person to pass it in over a decade. Even the dynasty families have stopped pestering me about it because of how embarrassingly poorly their candidates do. That says something.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Oz said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just... didn’t want to die.”

  “A very motivating goal.” Brackham smiled faintly. “But you did more than survive. You adapted. You showed initiative, resourcefulness, and extreme violence. Traits we actively try to develop in the first year.”

  “I’m still not sure I belong here,” Oz admitted. “This place is... a lot.”

  “I understand that feeling better than you might think.” Brackham leaned back slightly. “My family were cobblers. I got here through grades and grit. I remember walking onto this campus and thinking the whole place was going to notice I didn’t belong and spit me right back out.”

  “Yeah. This room has more art than the entire town of Greywater.”

  Brackham chuckled. “I believe you.”

  He grew more serious again. “Look, I know you didn’t ask for any of this. And I won’t force you to stay. You’re an adult. You can walk out that door with a recommendation to the rangers, though you will have to remain part of Noxarcer cohort for at least a couple of months for your health. That is if that’s what you want.”

  Oz leaned back, arms folded. “I only picked the Rangers ’cause they were the only way out. Greywater and the scab-lands at large don’t exactly overflow with opportunity.”

  He’d never really said it out loud before.

  “Greywater’s got three paths. Stay and rot, sign up with the Governor’s bootlickers, or enlist and hope the front lines kill you slower than boredom.”

  Brackham nodded thoughtfully. “You paint a vivid picture.”

  “It’s not a painting,” Oz said. “It’s a hundred shades of dirt rubbed in your face. Over and over.”

  Brackham gave a tired chuckle. “And yet here you are.”

  “Yeah,” Oz admitted. “And I’m staying. I want this. Just... not sure I know what that means yet.”

  “That’s more insight than half our applicants,” Brackham said. “I’m pleased with your choice, we’d much rather you stay put for now, even outside of classes. Your soul is still in flux. And we don’t yet know who tried to kill you.”

  Oz grimaced. “Right. I’m not playing around with soul damage, not after what happened to my dad.”

  “I looked him up. He was a remarkable man. Deserved better, especially given he saved the life of my good friend.” The Archchancellor nodded, and Oz felt the full depth of his sincerity.

  There was a pause. The weight of that sat between them.

  “I wanted to ask,” Oz said after a moment, before things got too emotional and he started thinking too much, “about the Other. Or, I guess, the... thing in my soul. Should I be worried?”

  “Have you noticed anything alarming?”

  Oz scratched at his temple. “Not dangerous. It’s just... annoying. It argues with me. Offers advice I didn’t ask for. Weird thoughts, I see images of its world, it’s all glass and speed and illusions everywhere.”

  “You should keep an eye on it, but as much as Bleed is often vilified it is more often neutral or even beneficial. Many say the shift in perspective helps them challenge themselves.”

  “Feels wrong, though,” Oz said. “Like the thoughts aren’t mine. And some of them are a little—uh—lecherous.”

  Brackham raised both eyebrows, and Oz found himself hesitantly explaining the issue from earlier. The man gave a wry chuckle.

  “Well, at least you’re in control and have an appropriate sense of decorum. If it’s a bother, mention it to Venna, she mentioned experiencing something similar. I understand this can be worrying, soul fusion can take time to smooth out. I do have one suggestion, give these other thoughts a real name.”

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  “A name?”

  “You keep calling it ‘the Other’, like it’s an invader. If you see it as an opponent it will become harder to change. As much as it might not feel like it, you’re fighting yourself. Those thoughts are a part of you now, and just as you can change with effort so can they. Naming it something less hostile will help you work with it, instead of against it. It will also help you take advice and benefit from what areas of insight you want to rely on.”

  Oz made a face. “I don’t want to start taking dating advice from this guy.”

  “You don’t have to embrace all of it,” Brackham said gently. “You can recognise it as separate to you, like advice from a friend with some questionable hobbies.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Oz muttered.

  “Good. That’s all I ask.”

  Oz tilted his head, remembering something. “There’s something else. My class. I noticed a stat called Authority popped up. Isn’t that normally for lawful types?”

  Brackham nodded. “You’re correct, it’s uncommon. Very few classes gain an additional stat at E-Rank, and Authority is typically tied to those who serve an institution that lends them power, guards, inquisitors, envoys of the Republic.”

  Oz blinked. “So why do I have it?”

  “Authority is a misleading title made worse by the context of its users. It doesn’t come from the fact the users tend towards being lawful, rather it is a measure of the ‘authority’ they have over the power they are entrusted with. Your power, as far as I can sense, is not bound to a government, a god, or other hierarchy. You’re channelling a concept, in your case, I’d bet good money on it being Defiance.”

  “Defiance?”

  “Indeed. Given your power set. You’re not beholden to a higher power, which is good, I’m never a fan of power that can be cut off if you break some obscure law. But it also means it only empowers actions aligned with its principle. Act in contradiction to that and your skills may not function even half as well.”

  Oz snorted. “So you’re telling me I got a class that wants me to what? Be a rebel. Cheat?”

  Brackham shook a finger. “Not wants. Classes don’t force your actions. It does, however, reward certain actions. It is up to you to work out what benefits are worth what actions.”

  “I didn’t ask to be a rebel, I was going into the military.”

  “No one asks for their class. And with time you will shape it, that is a big part of what we teach here.”

  “I still don’t know what to make of all this.”

  “That’s normal,” Brackham said. “This is a lot. You’ve been poisoned, thrown into a dungeon, soul-stitched, tested by an ancient intelligence, and enrolled in an Academy you didn’t apply to, all in under forty-eight hours.”

  “When you say it like that, ‘a lot’ really doesn’t cut it.”

  “I thought so. And there’s more you should know.”

  Brackham steepled his fingers. His tired eyes met Oz’s with quiet seriousness.

  “We are certain someone tried to kill you.”

  “Yeah,” Oz said. “That part I guessed.”

  “There’s more. We’ve started looking into it. Venna’s already dispatched a team. They may want to talk to you, but she’ll update you when she sees you. Until then, let me know if you leave the grounds.”

  Oz felt the weight of that settle in. “Great, as long as no one suggests I willingly drank that stuff.”

  “I want to be clear,” Brackham added. “You’re beyond suspicion. Your behaviour, your reactions in the Gauntlet, your refusal to harm the fairy whose name you learned, all point to someone who is above such behaviours.”

  “Ah, you heard about that?” Oz glanced down. “Is Mai— is she alright?”

  “Yes, it was shocking to hear that her name had been compromised, and her ‘brother’ will be facing severe punishment. However, she seems to have retained her passion and will hopefully have plenty of opportunity to act as part of Noxarcer’s trials. I thank you for being above such base evil intents.”

  “I mean, people eat other people for power? That’s not just a metaphor?”

  Brackham sighed. “It’s not common anymore, but it happens. A fairy’s power is potent. The act is highly illegal, but given the benefits can influence your whole career, some give in to temptation. Especially those who think shortcuts are worth the cost.”

  Oz made a face. “Back home, we had people cheat at dice and maybe smuggle booze from across the border. This is... next level.”

  “Welcome to Noxarcer,” Brackham said drily. “You’ll find our ethical dilemmas always come with a body count.”

  “Also, I wish to note that some other time I’d like to explore your ability to understand languages. I assume this is a new thing given your test scores.”

  “That’s gotta be the ‘Other’, doesn’t it?”

  “Hmmm, well, let’s put a pin in that. Let’s focus on the positive for a moment, you have passed the Gauntlet.”

  “Barely. And only because that Champion blew up Chops, and was too busy trying to burn me when it should’ve been clawing me apart.”

  Brackham nodded, expression cooling. “Yes. That’s something I want to address. The staff member controlling the Champion broke protocol. It used a finishing move at the start of the fight, something explicitly forbidden in our training framework. That was never supposed to happen.”

  “You mean the bit where it killed Chops in one hit?”

  “Exactly. That was an egregious failure. You were not meant to be put through that. And for that, I sincerely apologise.”

  Oz looked away. “I’m just glad he came back.”

  “And you will be compensated for this and for looking after the fairies.”

  “I don’t want a reward for not eating someone. That feels like the sort of thing that shouldn’t need a medal.”

  “Then just consider it compensation for the poor conduct of my colleague.”

  “Is it really that wrong? I mean, I still kind of want to hit her again, but we were enemies in the dungeon.” Oz had got in a lot of fights, many weren’t that personal. Just people being people.

  Brackham leaned back, folding his hands. “I’d like to explain a little more about Noxarcer, and why what happened to you matters.”

  “Our dungeons are not like those of the wild rifts or the endless towers of the Horde. We offer structured challenge, not chaos. Our purpose is to provide delvers with a space to grow. We measure success not by how many die, but how many survive and grow.”

  “That’s… kind of noble.”

  “It’s also practical,” Brackham said. “A well-balanced dungeon is a source of endless power. Not just for us, but for the realms we connect to.”

  Oz frowned. “So we... make the delvers from the mortal realms stronger?”

  “And in doing so, make ourselves stronger. Their delvers enter and in their struggles to defeat us send energy back through the dungeon. If they don’t grow, then that energy is capped, there are only so many delvers a dungeon can sustain. An emissary dungeon’s role is to curate challenges that will stretch them, test them, give them the ladder on which they can climb to greater heights. We are the architects of their progression.”

  Oz blinked. “So we’re the gym trainers, doing enough that they build muscle but not so much that they burn out or over-develop in one area?”

  “That’s… not a terrible metaphor, actually. A bit inelegant, but it’s mostly correct.”

  Aldomere continued. “To that end, our Champions, Templates and even the traps in our dungeons must follow strict rules. Death is not forbidden, but it must be the result of a real failure. Predictability is essential. A dungeon loses delvers when they stop believing the fight is fair.”

  “So when your Champion blasted Chops—”

  “Failure then was unearned. You had no way to know that an attack of that power was coming, no way to prepare. The failure would’ve been on us, not on you. It risked the integrity of your entire assessment.”

  Oz grunted. “Not to mention Chops got one-shot.”

  “Yes,” Brackham said grimly. “And for that, I am truly sorry.”

  They spoke for a while longer, laying out the next steps. Oz had two weeks to catch up, hopefully enough time to cram the basics and fake a sense of competence before classes began.

  As the rest of the students had followed a far more academic path, the plan was to keep his unconventional entry quiet. Passing the Gauntlet would raise eyebrows, and attention was something he couldn’t afford, especially since whoever had tried to kill him still didn’t know he’d been whisked away to Noxarcer. The longer that stayed true, the safer he was.

  When Oz mentioned that someone from his school was also enrolling, Brackham huffed in mild amusement. “I hope you don’t take offence in me saying they’ll never believe you passed the usual tests,” the vampire said drily. “But don’t worry, we’ll handle it.”

  Brackham explained that the rest of today was his to decompress and adjust. Venna would be visiting later, she’d wanted to be there earlier but was currently organising the investigation into his poisoning. Tomorrow, they would begin assessments and start tailoring his curriculum to fit both his class and the unique situation surrounding his soul.

  As for the practical matters, Oz would be staying on campus. Not only was his rent covered as a ‘scholarship’ student, but tuition and meals were also covered.

  The Archchancellor saw him off, sending him on his way towards his accommodation, but only after giving Chops one last pat and an apology for the terrible behaviour of his colleague.

  Oz decided then and there that the old vampire was one of the good ones.