The Headmistress’s council chamber was not built for comfort.

  It sat high in the northern tower, stone walls lined with maps of the Veils and old battle-plans etched into bronze plates.

  A circular table carved from a single piece of blackwood dominated the center of the room, its surface darkened by age and use. The air tasted faintly of smoke and decisions that had never quite ended.

  The table could seat thirty.

  Today, it held fewer than twenty.

  Aadyan, Lira, and Aresh entered together, still carrying the residue of the café—the silence between them, taut enough to cut if pulled.

  The warmth of that moment felt absurdly distant now, like heat remembered through winter glass.

  They separated immediately.

  Lira moved toward her father. Vedant Kaul stood near the wall of maps, expression carved from stone, firelight catching the silver threaded through his dark hair. Aresh stopped just inside the threshold, hands curling and uncurling at his sides, gaze flicking instinctively between exits and faces.

  Amar’s eyes touched the doorway for a fraction too long—an unspoken reminder of where Aresh stood and why.

  Aadyan took his place beside Acharya Amar Bisht. His mentor stood with arms crossed, jaw tight, the faint scar along his cheek catching the brazier light as his gaze swept the room with the kind of silence that promised blood if necessary.

  Jiv was already there.

  He leaned against the far wall, grin fixed in place—lazy, familiar, the mask he wore when the world expected entertainment. But Aadyan had known him long enough to see beneath it: the way his shoulders angled subtly toward the door, the way his fingers tapped once, twice against his thigh before going still.

  Tension coiled beneath the performance, wound tight and waiting.

  Nandini stood close enough that their arms nearly brushed. Shreyas lingered a few paces back, face carefully blank.

  A scattering of older students filled the rest of the space—fifth-years, a handful of advanced fourths. The kind of gathering summoned when something had gone very, very wrong.

  Headmistress Iravati stood at the head of the blackwood table, hands resting flat against its surface. Forester Charu stood beside her, silent as old forest, eyes half-lidded but missing nothing.

  “Thank you for coming quickly,” Iravati said. Her voice was steady, measured. Steel lived beneath it.

  “What I am about to tell you does not leave this room unless I give explicit permission. Are we clear?”

  Quiet assent rippled through the chamber.

  Her gaze swept the room once, long enough to make sure the order had taken root.

  “Four days ago,” she continued, “Acharya Mihir discovered something at the Eastern Veil perimeter.”

  She paused.

  “A body. Hollowed.”

  The word settled.

  No one spoke. Even the fire seemed to dim, as if listening.

  Lira’s hand rose to her throat, fingers pressing lightly against her pulse.

  Aresh had gone very still—the kind of stillness that came before fire or flight. Aadyan felt the air thicken, breathing around him turning sharp, shallow.

  “The man’s mana was consumed,” Iravati said. “Not drained. Not stolen. Consumed. There were no wounds. No signs of struggle. Just… emptiness.”

  A fifth-year student near the window cleared his throat. “How is that possible?”

  “We don’t know,” Amar said flatly. “Mihir suspects deliberate harvesting. Something is feeding. And based on fog patterns and seal resistance, it’s moving west.”

  “Toward shared Veil borders,”

  Vedant added quietly. “Toward us.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Cold settled into the room.

  Orders followed—measured, relentless.

  “Fortify the ground,” Iravati said. “Anchor it deep. Sky and water teams will construct a full perimeter sphere—rotating shifts, no gaps. Combat students prepare for scenarios without warning. Healers are recalled immediately.”

  Acknowledgment passed through the room like a current.

  Then Iravati’s gaze shifted.

  “Jiv.”

  The change was subtle, but the room felt it. Jiv straightened, the grin still in place, though something behind it sharpened.

  “You and Forester Charu will oversee Vana patrol and creature delegation. The forest is waking. I need someone who can listen before it decides we’re the problem.”

  “Understood, Headmistress,” Jiv said easily.

  Silence held.

  Then—

  “With respect.”

  A fifth-year stepped forward, tone controlled, jaw tight.

  “This isn’t about ego. The Vana is unstable. Oversight requires predictability.”

  A few heads nodded.

  His gaze slid to Jiv. “And you’re unpredictable.”

  Another boy near the back stepped forward. Broad-shouldered, fire-red bands stitched along his sleeves marking him as a combat specialist. His tone was polite. Barely. "Why is a jester being given control of the Vana? That forest is vast. Dangerous. We're preparing for a crisis. Shouldn't someone more... responsible be in charge? Someone with an actual major?"

  The room went taut as a drawn bowstring.

  Jiv didn't move. His grin stayed fixed, lazy, almost amused. He waved one hand dismissively, as if the question was no more serious than a badly timed joke at a festival.

  But Nandini went rigid.

  "He is responsible," she snapped, stepping forward, voice sharp enough to draw blood. "He knows more about the Vana than half the mentors here. Just because he doesn't parade around with a declared major doesn't mean he's incompetent."

  The fifth-year scoffed. "All he does is shapeshift and crack jokes. That's not leadership. That's a liability."

  "A liability?" Nandini's voice rose, trembling with barely restrained fury . "He's more powerful than you'll ever be, and he doesn't need to prove it by showing off in every combat drill like some insecure-"

  "Nandini," Shreyas warned quietly, stepping closer, but she ignored him completely.

  Two more students moved forward, backing the fifth-year. "She's got a point though," one muttered. "We're supposed to trust the Vana-the entire Vana-to someone who won't even take things seriously?"

  "Maybe if he actually showed what he could do instead of hiding behind jokes all the time-"

  "Enough."

  Jiv's voice cut through the rising argument like a blade through silk.

  He hadn't shouted. He hadn't raised his hand. He hadn't moved more than a breath. But the single word landed with enough weight that the entire room went silent.

  He pushed off the wall slowly, hands sliding into his pockets, posture deceptively relaxed-loose-limbed, casual, almost bored. But the grin was gone. What replaced it was something quieter, colder, and infinitely more dangerous .

  “Respect the Headmistress’s decision,” Jiv said mildly. “And don’t test people whose limits you haven’t seen.”

  The fifth-year bristled. “Is that a threat?”

  Jiv tilted his head, studying him with lazy attention. Recognition flickered there—not curiosity, not anger. Familiarity.

  “I’ve seen dozens of you,” Jiv said softly. “All talk. No show.”

  He took one step forward.

  “If I showed my real power,” he continued, voice dropping to a bare whisper, “would you be able to handle it?”

  No one answered.

  The fifth-year swallowed. Took a step back without realizing it. Someone else shifted away. No one laughed.

  Lira pressed her palm to her chest. Her gift wasn’t reading fear—it was catching patterns. This wasn't an escalation. This was something surfacing.

  Aadyan watched Jiv carefully. He had been trained to read threats—posture, breath, intent.

  None of it applied.

  Headmistress Iravati’s voice broke the tension.

  “That will be all. Dismissed.”

  The room emptied quickly.

  Jiv turned back to the wall, grin sliding into place like a familiar mask. Nandini lingered, her hand hovering near his arm before falling away.

  Lira caught Aadyan’s eye across the chamber, something unsettled and knowing in her expression.

  Aresh stood near the door, fists clenched white, staring at Jiv like he’d just seen a ghost wearing a friend’s face.

  The blackwood table felt heavier somehow—as if it remembered something the room had just agreed not to name.