The group stepped inside the administration hall, only to find themselves at the end of a long, winding queue. The line stretched nearly to the entrance, full of students waiting their turn to receive their schedules, dorm assignments, and amulets that allowed them to freely enter or leave the academy grounds. The room itself was grand, with arched ceilings and walls lined with floating luminescent globes, casting a steady glow over the gathered students.

  As they shuffled forward, Weylan took note of the different groups standing ahead of them. Some were clearly revenants, easily identified by their mix of casual and fantasy-styled clothing, while others bore the traditional robes and insignias of various noble houses. Among the nobles, one stood out by the rigid way he carried himself and the obvious sneer curling his lips. He was flanked by two students who were clearly also of noble descent, their attire impeccably tailored, their posture just as stiff as his. With an air of indignant outrage, he exhaled sharply. "Preposterous."

  The single word dripped with disdain. He turned to the noble at his side. "That they would have me, Valen of house Aldrich, and also you my friends, waiting in a line like commoners. Revenants, exchange students from the most backwater provinces… Even those who merely lucked into an invitation. This is beyond humiliating.”

  One of his companions, a human girl with her blonde hair pinned in elaborate curls, sniffed. “It’s a disgrace to proper tradition. My father assured me we’d have priority, yet here we are, forced to wait like peasants.”

  Weylan, standing only a few feet behind them in line, exchanged a glance with Ulmenglanz, who simply rolled her eyes. The three priestesses, all still somewhat in awe of their surroundings, whispered excitedly among themselves, thankfully too distracted to pay the noble brat any attention.

  Before Weylan could tune out the whining entirely, a voice interrupted. Smooth and undeniably amused. "Oh, what a tragic fate, waiting like everyone else."

  A tall, thin elf with graying hair materialized out of thin air, his invisibility spell fading as he stepped into view. The teacher wore the deep navy robes of the academy staff, his sharp features twisted into a smirk as he studied the gathered students. “It warms my heart to see such a diverse group forming bonds over shared hardship.” His eyes flickered toward a notebook, then at Valen before darting to Weylan. “Ah, excellent. Two nearly identical sounding names, two students of doubtful merit. What luck! I see no reason to keep you apart. Fate has spoken!”

  Valen stiffened. “What?”

  “You’ll be sharing a dormitory.” The elf smiled, pleased at his own announcement. “Along with two others.” He pointed at random at Darken and another noble, a serious-looking young man they later learned was named Erik. “I have no doubt you’ll all become the best of friends.”

  Weylan blinked. “Wait, what?”

  The teacher ignored them both and turned, already walking away. “Perhaps if you achieve something noteworthy, we’ll consider moving you to better accommodations. But given your circumstances, hardly a chance of that."

  Valen looked murderous. Weylan wasn’t particularly thrilled either, but the sheer outrage written across the noble’s face was enough to make him smirk.

  "Well," he said dryly, "this is going to be fun."

  Calla, their student guide clapped Valen on the shoulder. “Well done. Not many first-years manage to annoy Professor Evanesceniel the Unseen on their first day here. He stalks around every year to find the student who’s most full of himself to teach him a lesson. That must be a new record.”

  * * *

  After the line finally moved and the students received their amulets, dorm keys, and timetables, Calla gathered them for a tour of the campus.

  The Wildeguard Academy campus was breathtaking. Ancient spires of dark stone rose above vast courtyards, bridges spanning over elegant walkways. Beyond the walls, the Wildewood Forest stretched into the distance, its vibrant green canopy concealing countless magical creatures.

  Their guide pointed out important landmarks:

  The Grand Hall, where lectures and official gatherings took place.

  The Duelist’s Arena, where combat training was held.

  The Alchemical Tower, where potion classes were conducted.

  The Research Annex, a building filled with enchantment workshops and experimental labs.

  The Dormitory Wings, where students would be living for the semester.

  As they walked, the priestesses whispered excitedly among themselves, already thrilled by the thought of training in magic beyond just healing. Ulmenglanz remained observant, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. Weylan, meanwhile, stole occasional glances at Valen, who was clearly still fuming about their shared dorm.

  Calla led them to a grand building and walked up the short stairs to its portal. With a flourish, she tapped at the door. Runes flared up and the heavy double doors of the building swung open without a sound, revealing a towering library unlike anything the new students had ever seen. Shelves stretched impossibly high, their tops vanishing into shadowy lofts. Twisting staircases and moveable ladders wove between floors. Softly glowing runes flickered on the spines of ancient tomes.

  Their orientation guide, made a grand gesture and turned to the newcomers with a smirk. "Welcome to Bookhalla, the beating heart of Wildeguard Academy," she said. "This place holds knowledge older than most kingdoms."

  She motioned for the group to step inside. Weylan, Ulmenglanz, and the three priestesses followed cautiously, their eyes flickering across the enchanted bookshelves, the staircases, and the mighty oak tree that stood in the open area in the middle of the building. Its branches reached for the ceiling. Its leaves seemed to slightly glow in the light shining down from the round ceiling window.

  "The books here are enchanted for preservation, but they are also protected," Calla continued. "If you dog-ear the pages of a book, or gods forbid, tear out a page… you’ll regret it."

  A high-pitched chittering sound echoed from the shelves, and a small, gnarled figure scrambled into view. A goblin. It was no taller than a child, with gray-green skin, oversized eyes that gleamed in the dim light, and long, dexterous fingers clutching a massive tome nearly as large as itself. A small satchel of quills and ink bottles clattered at its side.

  It hissed at the group, its thin lips curling in displeasure. "Careless hands, clumsy feet! Break books, break heads! Library’s law, it is!"

  The priestesses stepped back nervously. Weylan stared.

  Their guide barely spared it a glance. "That’s Whisker, one of the book goblins. They…"

  "Book goblins, we are! Yes, yes. Keep books safe, keep books happy, we do!" The goblin bared its needle-like teeth in what might have been a grin… or a warning. "You good visitors, yes? Not break silence, hmm? Not… snack on pages?"

  Selvara, still in raven form on Weylan’s shoulder, cawed in offense.

  "We don’t eat books," Alina said carefully.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  "Others have!" Whisker cackled, scurrying away to place its book back on a shelf. Ulmenglanz eyed the goblin as it vanished between the shelves. "Are they… enslaved?"

  A female book goblin walked around the corner, carrying a stack of notebooks. She was missing half an ear, the straight cut long healed into a clean scar. She wore a tiny set of wire-rimmed spectacles balanced precariously on her nose. While the other goblins darted about in restless bursts like squirrels, this one moved with deliberate care. Goblins didn’t live long enough to gather age lines or gray hairs, but something about her calm, measured steps seemed more mature than the excited goblins around her.

  "Bound by magic, bound by debt, bound by contract," the female goblin murmured. "Goblin tribe make deal. Good deal. Now here, we are. Yes, yes. Serve the tree-man. Serve the books. Lucky, we are!"

  "Lucky?" Faya asked, frowning.

  "Better than constantly being killed by revenants," the female goblin said with a small shrug, then shuffled away.

  Calla cleared her throat. "Moving on! Head Librarian Eichenkiel is the one who keeps this place running…"

  One of the students brushed against a stack of unsorted books, knocking it over.

  From all directions, book goblins emerged, chittering and snarling. One scuttled down a ladder faster than any normal creature should and snatched up one of the fallen books. It sniffed the spine, screeched, and then scampered away, vanishing into the depths of the library. Other goblins quickly picked up the fallen books, sorted them and stacked them back up. Then they vanished again.

  The students watched in stunned silence.

  The guide exhaled. "They can sense any damage to the books. You were lucky no spine broke or page was crumbled." She shot a stern look at the clumsy student. “And that we were so many. Had you been alone when tumbling around a bunch of books…”

  The tour continued, but now the students walked carefully, aware that the book goblins were watching their every step.

  The group had just finished their tour of Bookhalla when the massive oak doors at the far end of the library groaned open. A hush fell over the book goblins as a figure emerged, his very presence commanding attention. His skin was the color of aged oak, rich and textured with the faint grooves of natural bark. His hair, like Ulmenglanz’s, reflected the season. Right now, a cascade of reds, oranges, and deep browns, a living echo of autumn’s fire. His hazel-brown eyes held the weight of centuries.

  At the sight of another dryad, his expression remained unreadable, though the faint scent of oak leaves and old parchment seemed to grow stronger.

  Ulmenglanz took a step forward, uncertain but intrigued. She had known of him, every dryad did, but she had never met him.

  Eichenkiel studied her for a long moment before speaking, his voice like the rustling of leaves in a sacred grove. “You are a daughter of the forest, yet you step willingly into the halls of civilization. A curious choice.”

  Ulmenglanz met his gaze regally. “I’ve been born to the Border Forest. A region that has been mostly tamed ages ago. And besides, knowledge is part of nature as well as of civilization.”

  At this, Eichenkiel's lips quirked into the ghost of a smile. “A fair answer. You are young, but your roots run deep. I sense fire in your spirit, like the first ember of a forest fire. While fire can renew a forest, it can also consume you if you’re not careful.”

  Weylan glanced between them, sensing the weight of the conversation but understanding little. The priestesses, wide-eyed, remained silent. Even the book goblins had paused their usual muttering and chittering, watching the exchange with uncharacteristic patience.

  Ulmenglanz tilted her head slightly. “And you? When I first heard of you, I always wondered why one of the ancients left his birth-forest behind.”

  Eichenkiel’s eyes darkened, not in anger, but in memory. He extended a long, branch-like hand, palm facing upward. In its center, faint etchings of runes glowed, pulsing softly with old magic. “I did not leave it behind. I followed it here.”

  His gaze flickered over the group of students and stopped at Weylan.

  His hazel eyes darkened. Slowly, he extended his hand, pointing at him. "You.” His voice was quieter now, but no less commanding.

  Weylan tensed. “Uh… me?”

  Eichenkiel’s eyes were fixed on the brand-new bag of holding at Weylan’s side. The air inside the room warped and with a single step, the dryad crossed the distance and stood right next to Weylan. Without asking permission, the dryad reached out. His fingertips barely brushed the dark scaled surface, but it was enough. A faint shiver of magic pulsed through the library. Book goblins hissed softly from their perches, sensing the disturbance. The dryad’s eyes widened in recognition.

  “Where did you get this?” His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the threat behind it.

  Weylan’s mind raced. He couldn’t reveal Malvorik’s nature as a dungeon heart. That wasn’t his secret to tell. So, he did what he did best. He told the truth, but lied by omission. “A mage in Mulnirsheim crafted it for me. Someone I helped out. He owed me a favor.” Weylan kept his tone casual, though something in the way Eichenkiel’s fingers tensed told him the dryad wasn’t entirely convinced.

  Eichenkiel exhaled slowly, his gaze lingering on the bag’s surface. “A mage… And where did this mage get the materials?”

  Weylan hesitated for the briefest moment, then shrugged. “I brought them back myself from a quest we stumbled into by accident.”

  Silence.

  Ulmenglanz, who had been standing at Weylan’s side, watched the dryad carefully. She could feel the shift in his mood. Old grief and ancient anger.

  Eichenkiel traced his fingers over the scales, his voice quieter now. “That explains why it feels… recent. Fresh. Not like an artifact of the past. You fought them. You really fought against the Hoarderscale Scourge. They have returned.”

  The book goblins stilled.

  Weylan nodded. “Yeah. Ulmenglanz, the three priestesses over there, two fighters who’re not with us right now and I, we were on a quest to help a farmer against some tiny monsters. We did not know what they were at first. It was… hard. We killed many, but they just kept coming. We could not defeat them, but we held them there until reinforcements came to wipe them out.” He pointed a thumb back at the students behind him. “Darken O’ Mighty among them. He and his team kept the scourge from attacking the farmers family.”

  Eichenkiel finally lifted his gaze from the bag, looking not at Weylan, but at Ulmenglanz.

  His hazel eyes met hers, and in that moment, something unspoken passed between them.

  “So, you too have walked the battlefield against my ancient enemy,” Eichenkiel murmured. His voice no longer held the sharp edge of interrogation.

  Ulmenglanz, frowned. “You fought them too? Personally? I thought the Great Ritual destroyed them all before even your time.”

  Eichenkiel’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m older than you think. I battled the scourge for years and years. I lost count of how many fell by my hands before the ritual was completed. Twelve circles of twelve archmages. All freely sacrificing their lives to power the ritual. I fought with the Praetorians, the empires elite guard, to protect the ritual site. They swarmed at us until the last moment. Until the Cleansing Wave turned every single one of them to dust. Or so we thought. I don’t remember much of the aftermath. I was wounded. Exhausted. Barely alive. The guards carried me back to my home forest, where I finally rested inside my birth tree…” His voice grew softer. “Time means nothing to a tree. And some wounds take long to heal. When I awoke, my forest was all but gone.” He glanced around meaningfully.

  Ulmenglanz’s eyes widened in understanding. “…The academy’s papermills.”

  Eichenkiel nodded, but his expression did not shift. “They did not touch the ancient oaks. The heart of the forest remained. But the young beech trees, the ones I once walked amongst, whispered no more. Their wood was taken. Their pulp became paper, filling the books I now protect.”

  He looked around, his gaze sweeping across Bookhalla, where thousands of volumes rested in quiet reverence. “And so, I followed my forest. And when my heart followed the wood of my homeland into these halls, so too did my birth tree follow me. If my forest was to be turned into knowledge, I would ensure it was not wasted. That it was remembered.”

  Weylan, shifting uncomfortably, glanced at his bag. It felt heavier now.

  Eichenkiel looked at it disdainfully. “The hoarderscales have returned. And their corpses are being turned into… accessories.”

  Weylan, awkwardly, glanced at his bag. “Well, when you put it like that…”

  Eichenkiel studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. “Keep it, if you must. But you should know this…” His fingers brushed the bag one last time before he pulled away. “Items made from scourge-beasts will always stay part of the scourge. The scourge consumes. It adapts. It evolves. The hoarderscales are dead, but their nature remains. It will not change now, but one day, you may find it reacting to something. Or calling something.”

  A chill ran down Weylan’s spine. “That’s not ominous at all.”

  Eichenkiel huffed. “I do not deal in omens. Only in truths and knowledge.”

  Ulmenglanz, watching the exchange carefully, finally asked, “Do you want to study it? You seem... invested.”

  Eichenkiel considered it for a long moment. Then, finally, he shook his head.

  “No. It is not the bag I need to study. It is the land. I must find out how the hoarderscales survived.”

  The book goblins muttered among themselves.

  “Bad bag. Should burn.”

  “Yesss… must watch him, we must.”

  “Toss it in fire, yes. Burn it away… But not inside Bookhalla.”

  Eichenkiel shot them a brief glance, and the goblins immediately fell silent, their ears twitching as they slinked back into the shelves. With that, he turned, his autumn-colored hair shifting like falling leaves, and strode back into the shadows of the towering shelves.

  Now the students started to whisper.

  “Did he say hoarderscales?”

  Valen Aldrich scoffed. “Children’s stories. The old tree-man must have gone daft.”

  Calla looked at the outraged book goblins and hurriedly ushered the students outside.

  Before the last student managed to depart, a book goblin waddled up to Ulmenglanz. He wore a buttoned up black shirt that clashed with his loincloth. He held up a flower with multicolored petals to the dryad. “Take Flower. Remember Bookhalla. When grumpy one dies, you rule.”

  The voice of the librarian seemed to come from everywhere at once. “I’m not old enough to die, damn it…!”

  Ulmenglanz gently took the flower, smelled it and patted the goblin on his head. Then she too left.