Adom groaned as he dragged himself up the last flight of stairs to his dormitory. Each step felt like a personal betrayal from his lower body. He was eighty years old, not eighteen, and right now every single one of those years seemed determined to make its presence known in his joints.

"This," he muttered to no one in particular, "was a terrible idea."

The hallway stretched before him like an insurmountable desert. His room, normally just a short walk, might as well have been on the other side of the continent. He leaned against the wall, catching his breath.

Biggins had warned him, of course. The old dragon had been quite specific about the pain. "Rewiring your Fluid channels," he'd called it, as if Adom were just some building getting new plumbing. The comparison wasn't entirely inaccurate. For the past seven hours, Biggins had stuck those silver needles into points all over his body, redirecting the flow of Fluid through pathways that—according to conventional magical theory—shouldn't even exist.

"Law couldn't handle it," Biggins had reminded him cheerfully while inserting a particularly painful needle at the base of Adom's skull. "His channels kept collapsing. Like trying to reroute a river through sand."

Adom pushed himself off the wall and shuffled forward. Three more doors. He could make it.

The worst part hadn't been the needles. It had been the moment when Biggins had activated them all simultaneously, sending what felt like liquid fire coursing through Adom's body. He'd expected pain, but not the sensation of being unmade from the inside out, as if every cell were being pulled apart and reassembled according to some new blueprint.

"You're doing well," Biggins had said, peering down at him with those ancient eyes while Adom writhed on the table. "Law screamed much louder."

Small comfort, that.

Two more doors.

When it was over, when the last needle had been removed and Adom could breathe again without feeling like his lungs were filled with broken glass, Biggins had patted him on the shoulder and delivered the final insult.

"We'll need to do this every day for at least a week," he'd said, as if suggesting they meet for lunch. "And you'll need to strengthen your body in between sessions. Running, swimming, weight training—whatever you can manage. The stronger your physical form, the better it can adapt to the new pathways."

One more door.

Adom had asked, in what he considered a very reasonable tone given the circumstances, why no one had ever heard of Axis before. Not in any book, not in any ancient scroll, not in any whispered legend.

"Because I discovered it on my own," Biggins had replied, cleaning his needles with meticulous care. "Born after my kind's time, with no elders to teach me, I had to find my own way. And once I did, well..." He'd paused, looking up with an expression Adom couldn't quite read. "Some knowledge is better kept close."

Adom finally reached his door. He fumbled with the key, his fingers still tingling oddly—an aftereffect of having his Fluid channels rerouted, Biggins had explained. Like pins and needles, but deeper.

The lock clicked open, and Adom practically fell into his room. He didn't bother with the lights, just made a beeline for his bed and collapsed face-first onto it.

"Never again," he groaned into his pillow. Then, after a moment's reflection, amended, "Well, until tomorrow."

Because of course he would go back. The pain was excruciating, the recovery worse, but the potential... The potential was worth it. A form of Fluid manipulation that didn't rely on emotional states? It was unheard of.

And as a mage, such a thing was, to put it mildly, exhilarating.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Biggins had made him promise to spend at least an hour training his body before bed, regardless of how exhausted he felt. "The physical must strengthen alongside the magical," he'd insisted. "Mind, body—all must align for Axis to manifest."

Easy for a dragon to say. They probably didn't feel like they'd been trampled by a herd of silverbacks after a simple acupuncture session.

With a sigh that contained the full weight of his suffering, Adom pushed himself up to sitting. He'd rest for a few minutes, then maybe manage some basic stretches. Perhaps a short jog around the dormitory grounds, if his legs remembered how to function.

A soft blue glow illuminated the darkness of his room. His communication crystal was pulsing in his jacket pocket—someone trying to reach him.

Adom stared at the pocket, weighing the effort of moving against the importance of potential messages. After a moment's deliberation, he reached for the crystal with a wince. Whatever it was, it would have to be extraordinarily important to justify any more movement today.

"Hello?" he managed, his voice rough from the day's ordeal.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite little mage!" Valiant's voice boomed through the crystal with such enthusiasm that Adom had to hold it away from his ear. "How's life treating you? Still doing all that boring reading and whatnot? You know what they say about all work and no play—makes Adom a dull boy! Get it? Because your name sounds like—"

"Hey, Valiant," Adom cut in, too tired for the usual banter.

There was a brief pause.

"Whoa, hey, are you alright?" Valiant asked. "You sound like you just went twelve rounds with a troll. And lost."

"I'm fine," Adom said. "Just tired. It's been a long day."

"A long day of what? Wait, let me guess—you were at that weird shop again, weren't you? The one with the old mage who's definitely not what he seems? I told you that place gives me the creeps. Last time I was there, I swear one of the bottles winked at me. A bottle! With an eye! Or maybe it was an eye in a bottle? Either way, not normal, my friend, not normal at all. Speaking of eyes, did I tell you about that cyclops I met at the tavern last week? But this one was half blood. Human and cyclop. Fascinating fellow, terrible depth perception. Speaking of half blood, I wonder how his dad managed to get his m—"

Adom pinched the bridge of his nose. On any other day, he might have indulged Valiant's meandering conversational style. Today was not that day.

"Why are you calling me, Valiant?"

"Why am I—? Oh!" There was a pause. "Right, right, got sidetracked there. Happens to the best of us. Like this one time when I was supposed to deliver a message to the for my uncle but saw this absolutely magnificent butterfly and ended up three blocks over somehow—"

"Valiant." Adom's patience, already thin, was rapidly evaporating.

"Sorry, sorry. Focus. I'm focused now." There was the sound of a deep breath. "Well, there's someone who wants you dead."

Adom chuckled, though it made his ribs ache. "There's always someone who wants me dead. You'll have to be more specific."

"No, I mean someone with actual money and influence this time. The Belmonts and the Hartwells."

Adom straightened, pain momentarily forgotten.

"You're sure?"

"As sure as I am that trolls smell bad," Valiant confirmed. "And let me tell you, trolls smell really bad. This one time my uncle brought me to—"

"Why?" Adom cut in, redirecting the conversation before it spiraled into another tangent. "What's their issue with me?"

"Oh, right. Well, they're big supporters of the Crown Prince. Not exactly thrilled about you being involved in his arrest. Apparently, they've got a lot riding on him getting acquitted. Investments, political alliances, arranged marriages—the whole noble package deal. If he goes down, they lose big."

Adom nodded to himself. It made sense.

"Do you have proof? Something concrete I could take to my father?"

"Oh, plenty!" Valiant sounded proud. "Got a couple of their messengers on my payroll. Intercepted letters with some very interesting wording."

"Can you get all of it to me? As soon as possible?"

"Already packaged up and ready for delivery. Should be at your door by morning," Valiant said. "I am extremely efficient when it comes to political blackmail material. It's kind of my specialty. Like that time with the enemy gang and the goat—"

"Thank you, Valiant," Adom said firmly, pushing himself off the wall to continue his painful journey down the hallway. "This is extremely helpful."

"No problem, no problem at all. What are friends for if not warning each other about assassination plots? Though I suppose most friends just lend each other books or help move furniture, but that's boring, isn't it? Anyway, I assume you'll be taking this straight to daddy dearest? The advantages of having the commander of the Iron Wolves for a father, am I right? Most people have to actually deal with their own problems, but you just make one call to papa and suddenly—"

"Thanks again, Valiant," Adom said, cutting the connection mid-sentence. He slipped the crystal back into his pocket.

Adom sighed, staring up at the door of his dorm.

"Physical training," he muttered. "Right now. At this exact moment when I feel like death itself."

He pushed himself up with a groan that started in his toes and worked its way up to his throat. Standing felt like an accomplishment worthy of celebration. Walking would be a miracle.

But Biggins had been clear. No exceptions.

The academy grounds would be mostly empty this time of evening. Less witnesses to his suffering. Small mercies.

Adom changed into loose training clothes, apparently, neither Sam or Zuni were there at the moment. He tied his shoes and when he finally straightened up, the room spun briefly.

"This is fine," he told himself unconvincingly. "Everything is fine."

It wasn't.

The night air hit his face as he stepped outside, cool and refreshing against his flushed skin. The academy's training field stretched before him, silver-blue in the moonlight. Usually, it would be filled with students practicing combat forms or channeling Fluid through carefully controlled exercises. Now it was empty, peaceful.

About to be disturbed by one very reluctant eighty-year-old mage.

Adom began with a walk. Just a simple walk around the perimeter. Even that felt like asking too much of his body.

"Left foot, right foot," he coached himself. "Very advanced technique, Adom. Really showing off those eight decades of magical expertise."

By the second lap, his legs had remembered they were, in fact, legs, designed for the express purpose of locomotion. They weren't happy about it, but they were cooperating. Mostly.

He increased his pace slightly. Not quite a jog, more like a hurried shuffle. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides, occasionally swinging in what might generously be called a running motion if the observer was both kind and partially blind.

The third lap brought a stitch in his side that felt like someone had embedded a dagger between his ribs. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool evening.

"This is pathetic," he gasped, stumbling to a halt. "You're supposed to rest when your body's tired!"

A group of first-year students crossed the far side of the field, laughing among themselves. One pointed in his direction. Adom couldn't hear what they said, but he could imagine.

Pride made him straighten up. Pride made him start running again.

It wasn't pretty. His arms pumped awkwardly, legs shuffling in a gait that resembled a man trying to run underwater while wearing heavy boots. His breath came in short, painful gasps.

But he kept going.

"This... better... be worth it," he wheezed.

The fourth lap nearly broke him. His lungs burned. His legs trembled. Every part of his body seemed to be shouting increasingly creative obscenities at him.

Then something strange happened.

As he rounded the eastern corner of the field, a warmth spread through his chest that wasn't just exertion. It was familiar—the sensation of Fluid moving through reconfigured channels, testing new pathways like water finding its course through freshly dug riverbeds.

Adom stumbled, caught himself, kept going.

The warmth intensified, spreading down his arms, into his legs. Not painful, exactly. More like the pleasant burn after stretching a long-unused muscle.

By the sixth lap, he wasn't shuffling anymore. His stride had lengthened. His breathing, though still labored, had found a rhythm.

The seventh lap brought a tingling sensation along his spine, as if someone were tracing the vertebrae with a finger dipped in warm honey.

And then it happened.

A soft blue glow emanated from his skin, barely visible in the moonlight. It pulsed once, twice, then flashed brighter for an instant before fading.

In his mind's eye, Adom saw something that wasn't there:

[White Wyrm's Body has reached level 10!]

He stumbled again, this time from surprise rather than exhaustion.

Curious, he pushed himself harder, picking up speed.

Three more laps. His lungs still burned, but differently now—like they were expanding, creating more space for air. His legs still ached, but the pain had a productive quality to it, the kind that promised growth rather than injury.

Another flash, this one with a distinct green tinge:

[Healing Factor has reached level 03!] [You now heal at 6x the normal human rate]

Adom almost laughed out loud. He could feel it happening—the microscopic tears in his muscles knitting themselves back together almost as quickly as he created them. The stitch in his side vanished. The trembling in his legs steadied.

"That's more like it," he gasped, pushing harder still.

By the fifteenth lap, he was actually running. Not sprinting, certainly not gracefully, but running all the same. His arms had figured out what they were supposed to be doing. His breathing had deepened.

Another flash:

[+5 Silverback's Might]

He could feel the strength flooding into his limbs, not overwhelming but supportive, like invisible hands helping to propel him forward.

The final flash came as he completed his twentieth lap, this one a deep, rich purple:

[Iron Lungs has reached level 10!]

Suddenly, breathing was easy. The burning sensation transformed into something almost pleasant—a cool, invigorating flow that seemed to purify his blood with each inhalation.

Adom slowed to a walk, then stopped altogether, hands on his knees. He was exhausted, yes—but that wasn't why he halted.

It was wonder.

He stood up straight, rolling his shoulders experimentally. The pain was still there, but it was different now. Manageable. Almost a friendly reminder rather than a debilitating force.

"Huh," he said to the empty field.

He took a deep breath, marveling at how efficiently his lungs worked now. The air seemed to fill every corner of his chest, rich and satisfying.

Experimentally, he channeled a small amount of Fluid through one of the new pathways Biggins had created. It flowed more smoothly than before, with less resistance. Not perfect—not yet—but improved.

His hand glowed faintly with the energy.

"So that's what you meant," Adom murmured, thinking of Biggins. The physical strengthening the magical. The body adapting to accommodate the new channels.

For a moment, he just stood there in the moonlight, feeling the changes ripple through his system. The improved circulation. The enhanced cellular regeneration. The subtle but unmistakable increase in physical strength. All feeding back into the reconfigured Fluid pathways, reinforcing them, stabilizing them.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

A realization struck him that made him laugh out loud:

This was only day one.

*****

Day 02.

"OUCH!"

"Stay calm," Biggins said, inserting another silver needle into a point just below Adom's shoulder blade. "The more you tense, the more it hurts."

"Easy for you to say," Adom muttered through clenched teeth. "You're not the one being turned into a pincushion."

Biggins chuckled, selecting another needle from the wooden box. "True. Though I did have to figure this out on myself first, you know. Dragons aren't exactly known for their high pain tolerance. We're rather sensitive creatures, contrary to popular belief."

From his perch on a stool in the corner, Bob snorted. "Sensitive? Is that what we're calling it now?"

"No one asked for your commentary, Leprechaun," Biggins said without looking up.

"Just making conversation." Bob polished an already immaculate shoe with a handkerchief. "Someone has to keep the lad's mind off the torture you're inflicting."

Adom winced as another needle slid into place along his spine. "It's not torture. It's just... excruciating."

Biggins stepped back to admire his handiwork. Dozens of silver needles protruded from Adom's back, arranged in patterns that would make no sense to conventional medical practitioners. They caught the shop's lamplight, glinting like stars against his skin.

"I must say, I'm impressed you did the workout," Biggins commented, adjusting a needle that had tilted slightly.

"It wasn't exactly pleasant," Adom admitted.

"And yet you pushed through." Biggins nodded approvingly. "That's good. The more you force yourself to use Fluid while the pathways are forming, the smoother the transition will be."

Bob leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Go easy on the lad. He's still practically a child."

"I'm eighty," Adom reminded him.

"Like I said, a child." Bob waved dismissively. "His weak human body can only take so much."

Biggins selected a particularly long needle, holding it up to the light with a smile that was just a touch too enthusiastic. "Oh, I don't know. Our friend here is quite resilient. Aren't you, Adom?"

Before Adom could answer, Biggins inserted the needle at the base of his neck. It didn't hurt as much as yesterday. Progress, of sorts.

"Soon," Biggins continued, "you'll be able to channel Fluid just like you channel mana—with conscious intent rather than emotional dependency. For a mage of your caliber, the difference will be night and day."

"If he survives your treatment," Bob muttered.

"Your concern is touching," Biggins said, "if unnecessary."

Adom watched them with interest. The tension between the two beings was palpable.

"How long have you two known each other?" he asked.

They answered simultaneously:

"Too long." "Not nearly long enough."

A moment of silence. Biggins and Bob exchanged a glance.

"Dragon."

"Leprechaun."

And that was apparently all that needed to be said on the matter.

Biggins placed the final needle, then stepped back. "Now comes the interesting part."

Adom tensed. Yesterday's "interesting part" had felt like being struck by lightning while drowning in boiling oil.

"Ready?" Biggins asked, hands poised over Adom's back.

"Not even slightly."

"Excellent!" Biggins clapped once, and all the needles began to glow simultaneously. "Deep breaths now."

The pain was... different this time. Still intense, but less chaotic, as if the fire racing through his veins had purpose rather than just blind destruction. Adom's vision blurred, then sharpened. He could actually feel the Fluid inside him responding, flowing through unfamiliar channels, testing boundaries, finding its way.

"Good, good!" Biggins enthused, practically bouncing on his toes. "It's adapting much faster than I expected. Your physical training really did help."

Bob had stood up, watching with what might almost be concern. "His eyes are glowing, Ale."

"Are they? Fascinating! Law's never did that." Biggins peered at Adom's face with childlike wonder. "What do you see, my boy?"

What Adom saw was impossible to describe. It was as if the world had acquired an additional dimension—not quite physical, not quite magical, but something in between. Flow lines, energy currents he'd never noticed before, became suddenly visible.

"I can see... everything," he managed, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears.

"Excellent!" Biggins clapped his hands again, and the needles stopped glowing. "That's enough for today, I think. Don't want to overdo it."

The additional perception faded, leaving Adom feeling oddly empty. Biggins began carefully removing the needles, humming tunelessly to himself.

"You look like you could use a drink," Bob observed. "Or ten."

Adom couldn't argue with that assessment.

Once all the needles were removed, Biggins helped him sit up. The pain was already subsiding, transforming into a warm, pleasant tingling.

"Your healing factor is adapting nicely," Biggins noted, watching color return to Adom's face. "Most would be bedridden for hours after that."

"Small mercies," Adom muttered, pulling his shirt back on.

"Same time tomorrow?" Biggins asked, already knowing the answer.

Adom nodded. There was no going back now.

*****

That evening, following Biggins's instructions, Adom ran again.

It was easier this time. His body remembered yesterday's lessons, adapted more quickly to the demands he placed on it. His breathing found its rhythm faster. His stride lengthened sooner.

As he completed his fifteenth lap, he felt something shift inside. Not the dramatic level-up sensation from yesterday, but a subtler advancement. The Fluid channels Biggins had created were stabilizing, becoming less raw, more integrated with his natural pathways.

He pushed himself harder, curious to see what would happen.

On the twentieth lap, he experimentally channeled Fluid without first conjuring an emotional state. Just a small amount, directed with conscious intent rather than emotional impetus.

For a brief, exhilarating moment, it worked. A flicker of power, neutral and controlled, flowed through his fingers.

Then it dissipated, the channels not quite ready to sustain the flow without emotional backing.

But it had worked. For a moment, it had worked.

Adom grinned, slowing to a walk as he completed his circuit.

*****

Day 03.

Another sleepless night later...

Adom's right calf seized as he rounded the corner of the Academy training field. He stumbled, caught himself, and continued running with a grimace.

"This is what dying feels like," he muttered, pushing through the pain. "This is what actively dying feels like."

No progress on the Axis front yet. Biggins assured him this was normal, that the pathways needed time to stabilize before he could reliably channel Fluid without emotional backing. Adom wasn't so sure. Maybe Law had been right to give up.

Still, he kept running.

Later that afternoon, Adom found himself in the quiet corner of the Academy library, a space usually reserved for senior mages working on research projects. He sat cross-legged on a meditation mat, breathing deeply and trying to feel the new pathways Biggins had created.

It wasn't going well.

Every time he thought he'd found one, it would slip away like trying to grab smoke. Frustrating didn't begin to cover it.

Day 04 brought more nightmares and a package from Valiant containing intercepted correspondence between the Belmonts and the Hartwells.

Adom read through it twice, then forwarded everything to his father with a short note explaining the situation.

He spent the day alternating between Biggins's increasingly painful acupuncture sessions and physical training that left him barely able to walk. The needles hurt less each time, but the activation process—when all the needles glowed at once and rerouted his Fluid—remained excruciating.

"Progress!" Biggins declared after the fourth session, practically dancing around his workbench. "The pathways are stabilizing much faster than I expected. You might actually survive this, my boy!"

"Your confidence is overwhelming," Adom said dryly.

Day 05 marked a turning point.

Adom woke feeling... different.

Well, aside from the recurring dream walking.

The constant pain had receded to a dull, manageable ache. When he stretched, his body responded with surprising flexibility. His reflexes seemed sharper. His vision clearer.

"You look better," Eren commented during their morning training session.

Adom had been neglecting his mentorship duties, and Eren had called him out on it—rightfully so. They'd agreed to meet early for some one-on-one work before Adom's scheduled torture session with Biggins.

"I feel better," Adom admitted, demonstrating a form that Eren had been struggling with. "Sorry I've been distracted lately."

"It's fine," Eren said, copying the movement with reasonable accuracy. "You've obviously got something big going on. Something you can't talk about."

Adom hesitated. "It's not that I can't—"

"You don't have to explain," Eren interrupted. "Just promise you'll focus more on my training after... whatever this is... is over. I'm starting to fall behind the others."

Guilt stabbed through Adom. "I promise. And you're not falling behind. Your progress is impressive given your late start."

"Don't patronize me," Eren said, but there was no real annoyance in his tone. "We both know I have a lot of catching up to do."

"Then let's catch you up." Adom moved into a more complex stance. "Try this one."

They spent the next hour working through increasingly difficult forms. Adom was surprised at how easily he moved, how naturally the Fluid flowed through his system. It was as if his body had finally accepted the changes Biggins was making instead of fighting against them.

Later, during his run, Adom completed thirty laps without feeling like he was dying. More remarkably, he managed to briefly channel Fluid without first generating an emotional state—just a small amount, but sustained for several seconds.

Progress indeed.

*****

Day 06 brought more changes.

"Have you... grown taller?" Sam asked, looking Adom up and down with a puzzled expression.

They were standing in the market square, waiting for Karion to finish haggling with a fruit vendor. Adom had been too distracted by his training to notice, but now that Sam mentioned it...

"Maybe a little," he admitted, looking down at his pants, which were indeed about an inch too short now. "Weird."

"Not that much, actually," Sam said. "People keep growing at thirteen. That's normal. You just seem to have more than one growth spurt. You'll soon be a head taller than me." Sam leaned in. "What's your secret?"

"New diet, mainly needles painfully piercing your body," he said lamely.

Sam laughed.

The sixth acupuncture session was different. Instead of pain, Adom felt a warm, almost pleasant sensation as the needles activated. The Fluid flowed smoothly through the new pathways, no longer fighting the redirection.

"Excellent!" Biggins exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement. "The channels are stabilizing! Now we can move to phase two."

"There's a phase two?" Adom and Bob asked simultaneously.

Biggins's smile was far too wide to be reassuring. "Of course! Did you think we were done? Oh no, my friends. We've only just begun."

"Marvelous," Bob muttered. "Just marvelous."

*****

Day 08.

Adom packed his stuff, laying each item on his bed before placing it in inventory.

"Three days of rations," he murmured, counting packages of dried meat, fruit, and bread. "Water purification tablets. Emergency flares. Change of clothes."

Zuni chirped from Sam's bed, watching the proceedings with unblinking eyes.

"Yes, I'm leaving some treats for you," Adom assured the quillick.

Biggins had ended the treatment yesterday, declaring that Adom's pathways were as stable as they would get without actual use. "The Axis will manifest soon enough," he'd said with absolute confidence. "You just need the right trigger."

Whatever that meant.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts.

"It's open," he called.

Sam entered, carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper. "I brought you something."

"You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did." He placed the package in his hands. "Open it."

Inside was a compact journal bound in soft leather, the pages thin but sturdy.

"For documenting the Fae Realm," Sam explained. "First-hand observations are invaluable. And the binding is treated with a preservation spell—water, fire, and tear-resistant."

"Tear as in crying or tear as in ripping?" Adom asked.

"Both." Sam smiled. "You're really doing this, aren't you?"

"I have to." Adom tucked the journal carefully into his satchel. "Or else I'll go crazy from sleep deprivation."

"I know." Sam held out his fist in a familiar gesture. "Bro Bump before you go?"

Adom grinned, bumping his fist against Sam's.

They pulled back simultaneously, curling their fingers as tiny sparks of magic flowed between their hands. The sparks gathered into a small, glowing sphere that hovered between them for a moment before exploding into a miniature firework display—a silent cascade of blue and gold that faded after a few seconds.

"Hah! Finally nailed it," Sam said, looking pleased.

"About time," Adom replied.

They'd been practicing the spell for almost a week now, ever since Sam had seen some senior mages doing it in the courtyard.

"Just don't get yourself killed. We have exams next month, and I'm not about to find a new study partner."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Zuni chirped from the bed, launching himself onto Adom's shoulder.

"I don't think you're supposed to bring a quillick to the Fae Realm," Sam pointed out.

Adom tried to nudge Zuni back toward the bed. "He's not coming."

The quillick dug his tiny claws into Adom's collar and refused to budge.

"Looks like he disagrees," Sam said. "Hey, can you bring me back some mushrooms from there if you find any?"

"I'm not going on a shopping trip, Sam."

"Research materials, then." Sam was already turning to his books. "See you in three days."

"You're not about to read one of your books again, right? You know, the weird ones?" Adom asked as he finished packing.

Sam crossed his arms defensively. "They're not weird. They're educational."

"I saw the new one you bought. 'Making Friends: A Practical Guide for the Socially Anxious Mage'? Seriously, Sam, maybe try talking to actual people instead of reading about it."

"Some of us don't have your natural charm," Sam retorted, grabbing a pillow from the bed and hurling it at Adom's head.

Adom's body seemed to move on its own, ducking to the side as the pillow whooshed past his ear.

They both froze for a second.

"Whoa," Sam said. "Those are some fast reflexes."

Adom blinked, surprised at himself. "I didn't even think about it."

"Maybe you're finally learning something in Combat Magic," Sam said with a nod of approval.

Once everything was secured, Adom donned the new clothes Biggins had provided—sturdy dark fabric that looked ordinary but contained protective enchantments. The boots were similarly enhanced, designed for both comfort and silent movement.

With a final tease of Sam, he opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air, Zuni perched contentedly on his shoulder.

*****

Bob was waiting at the edge of the woods when Adom arrived, leaning against an ancient oak tree, smoking a pipe that emitted blue smoke.

"You're early," the leprechaun observed, checking a pocket watch.

"Better than late," Adom replied.

Zuni chirped, leaping from Adom's shoulder to investigate Bob more closely. The leprechaun regarded the quillick with undisguised interest.

"And who might you be, little one?" he asked.

To Adom's surprise, Zuni responded with a series of complicated chirps and squeaks that seemed almost like... speech?

Even more surprising was Bob's reaction—he listened intently, then laughed. "Is that right? Well, pleasure to meet you too, Master Zuni. Any friend of the lad here is a friend of mine."

Adom stared. "You understand him?"

"Of course." Bob looked at Adom as if he were the strange one. "Don't you?"

"I... get the general idea, but not actual words."

Bob shook his head sympathetically. "Human hearing. So limited." He turned back to Zuni. "You're coming along, then? Good. We could use someone with your particular talents."

Zuni chirped proudly, stretching to his full height of about seven inches.

"What talents?" Adom asked, bewildered.

"Navigation, for one," Bob replied, as if it were obvious. "Quillicks can sense distortions in reality. Very useful in the Fae Realm where paths have a habit of... rearranging themselves."

Adom looked at the quillick with newfound respect. "You never mentioned that."

Zuni made a sound that, even to Adom's limited understanding, clearly translated to "You never asked."

Before Adom could respond, a rustling in the underbrush announced new arrivals. He turned to see Biggins emerging from the trees, followed by three familiar figures.

Biggins had insisted that Adom not travel to the Fae Realm alone. As such, Bob's invitation had been extended to three more people...

"Ah, right on time!" Biggins exclaimed. "Excellent, excellent!"

Behind him came Zara, her tiefling features partially hidden beneath a hooded cloak, though her curved horns still peeked through.

Next was Artun, moving with his usual casual grace, as if he'd just happened to be strolling through the forest at midnight and decided to join them on a whim. A smoke pipe dangled from his lips, and he carried what looked like a mandolin case but almost certainly contained weapons.

And finally, Thorgen, the dwarf's stocky frame unmistakable even in the dim light. His braided beard was adorned with small bronze beads that clinked softly as he walked.

"Architect!" Zara called out. "Look at you—all grown up and ready for adventure."

"Hardly grown up," Adom protested, though he couldn't help smiling. There was something about Zara that always put him at ease, despite her intimidating appearance.

"Taller, at least," she observed, measuring him with her eyes. "What has Ale been feeding you?"

"Pain, mostly," Adom replied.

Artun chuckled, setting down his case and stretching lazily. "Pain's good for growth. Makes you appreciate the quiet moments."

Thorgen grunted in agreement, striding forward to clasp Adom's arm in a traditional dwarven greeting. "The lad has filled out since last we met," he observed. "Good to see ye again, Architect."

"You too, Thorgen," Adom replied, genuinely pleased. "It's been almost a year, hasn't it?"

"Aye, since that day in the dragon's shop." The dwarf laughed. "Ye've come far since then. Grown in more ways than height."

"I heard you've been busy yourself," Adom said. "Traveling?"

Thorgen nodded, stroking his beard. "Aye, checking on the Order's outposts. Recruiting where I can." His voice lowered. "Was in Vethia not three days past. Saw your Wangara guild in action there."

"Ah, right. Cass did tell me we had people in Vethia now."

"Aye, fine work they're doing. Ye've good instincts, lad. The Order approves."

"What brought you to Vethia?" Adom asked, curious.

"Tracking a potential recruit. Someone with skills we need." Thorgen's expression darkened. "But the city was in chaos. Some gladiator escaped the arena—massive brute with more muscle than sense. Tore through the lower markets, upended everything."

"That sounds... problematic."

"Bah! Delayed my investigation by days." Despite his gruff tone, Thorgen didn't seem truly angry. "But I saw your people step up. Organizing evacuations, protecting the vulnerable. Good leadership there."

Adom made a mental note to send a message of appreciation to the Vethia chapter head. He hadn't known they'd been involved in handling such a situation.

"If you two are quite finished with your reunion," Bob interrupted, checking his pocket watch again, "midnight approaches. The veil thins as we speak."

Biggins clapped his hands together. "Yes, yes, time is of the essence. Is everyone prepared? Weapons? Supplies? No iron, remember!"

They all nodded, confirming their readiness.

"Good, good." Biggins turned to Adom, his expression suddenly serious. "Remember what we discussed. Three days. No longer."

"I understand," Adom assured him.

"And the Axis—"

"Will manifest when the time is right," Adom finished for him. "You've told me. Repeatedly."

Biggins smiled, not at all abashed. "Just making sure it sinks in. The human memory can be remarkably porous."

"Speaking of time," Bob said pointedly, "we have approximately two minutes until the optimal crossing point."

They gathered in a rough circle as Bob moved to what appeared to be an ordinary patch of forest floor. The full moon overhead bathed everything in silvery light, creating long shadows among the trees.

Bob began speaking in a language Adom didn't recognize—musical and flowing, with words that seemed to ripple through the air like water. As he spoke, he sprinkled a fine powder in a circle around them all.

The moonlight intensified, focusing on their small group as if through a lens. The forest around them seemed to recede, growing dim and indistinct while they remained brightly illuminated.

"Ready yourselves," Biggins said softly. "The crossing can be... disorienting."

Zuni chirped nervously, burrowing closer to Adom's neck. Adom stroked the quillick's head reassuringly, though he felt far from reassured himself.

Bob's chanting reached a crescendo. The moonlight pulsed once, twice, then flared blindingly bright. The forest floor beneath them seemed to turn translucent, revealing not dirt and roots but a swirling silver-blue mist.

"Now," Bob commanded, stepping forward into the center of the circle.

The mist rose around them, curling around their ankles, then their knees, then higher still. It wasn't cold as Adom had expected, but warm, almost welcoming.

"Good luck," Biggins said, his voice already sounding distant though he stood only a few feet away. "And remember—names have power in the Fae Realm. Guard yours carefully."

"Three days," Zara reminded Adom, moving closer as the mist thickened.

"Three days," Adom agreed.

Artun adjusted the case on his back, looking almost bored. "Should be fun," he remarked to no one in particular.

Thorgen gripped his axe tightly. "Stay close," he advised.

The mist was chest-high now, obscuring everything below. Adom could still see his companions' faces, but everything else was vanishing into the silvery haze.

"Follow me," Bob said, stepping forward into what should have been solid ground but instead seemed to be an opening—a doorway made of moonlight and mist.

One by one, they followed. Zara, then Artun, then Thorgen.

Adom hesitated for just a moment, looking back at Biggins, who raised a hand in farewell.

"Remember who you are," the dragon called, his voice now sounding as if it came from very far away. "That's the most important thing in the Fae Realm. Remember who you are."

With Zuni clinging tightly to his shoulder, Adom took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway of light.

The world around him dissolved. For a moment, he was nowhere at all—suspended in an in-between place that was neither here nor there, neither Academy forests nor Fae Realm.

Then he was falling, or perhaps rising—direction had no meaning in this place. Colors swirled around him, sounds that might have been voices or music or simply the fabric of reality rearranging itself.

And then, with a gentle sensation like stepping through a soap bubble, Adom found himself standing on solid ground again.

Except nothing was solid about this ground. Or this sky. Or this... place.

Trees towered overhead, their trunks spiraling impossibly, their leaves shifting colors even as he watched—gold to violet to deep crimson and back again. The grass beneath his feet seemed to glow from within, each blade casting its own tiny pool of light.

The air itself felt different—thicker, sweeter, charged with something that made his skin tingle.

His companions stood nearby, looking around with varying expressions of wonder, caution, and in Artun's case, mild amusement.

"Welcome," Bob said, spreading his arms wide, "to the Fae Realm."

And in the distance, beyond a meadow of flowers that seemed to be singing softly to each other, a city made of crystal and living wood rose into a sky where three moons—none of them the moon they had just been looking at—hung impossibly close.

"Well, that was thoroughly unpleasant," came a crisp, cultured voice from Adom's shoulder.

He froze.

Slowly, Adom turned his head to find Zuni staring back at him with his large, amber eyes.

Everyone else had fallen silent, their gazes fixed on the quillick. Everyone except Bob, who looked merely amused.

"You... talk?" Adom managed.

Zuni's tiny mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. The quillick looked as shocked as Adom felt.

"I... talk?!"

Then, more confidently.

"I TALK!"

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