The F-Class Sector: Night

  Amari didn't go back to the boiler room immediately. He couldn't.

  The hunger was a physical noise in his head.

  He circled the back of the Refectory, checking the disposal bins. They were locked. Magically sealed with Freshness Wards to prevent scavenging.

  Of course, Amari thought bitterly. The Academy protects its trash better than its students.

  He drank from a hose spigot behind the maintenance shed to fill the void in his stomach. The water was cold and tasted of rubber.

  He wiped his mouth and started the long walk back to the F-Class dorms.

  The campus was quiet. The curfew for suspended students was strict, but Amari moved through the shadows of the utility paths. Being a ghost had its perks.

  He turned the corner toward the boiler room entrance.

  He stopped.

  Someone was waiting for him.

  It wasn't an ambush. An ambush implies concealment. This was a blockade.

  Bronson stood directly in the center of the narrow alleyway.

  Up close, the Warrior Class student was even bigger than he looked in the cemetery. He was a slab of granite wrapped in grey sweats. He wasn't armed, but he didn't need a weapon. His hands were the size of shovels.

  Amari didn't run. He didn't step back. He adjusted his stance, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

  Tank. Heavy. Disciplined. Dangerous.

  "You're loud," Bronson said. His voice was deep, rumbling in his chest like an idling engine.

  "I wasn't trying to be quiet," Amari lied.

  "You were," Bronson corrected. "You move on your toes. Weight forward. Like a scout."

  Bronson took a slow step forward. He filled the alley.

  "I have a question," Bronson said.

  "I'm suspended," Amari said, keeping his voice flat. "I'm not supposed to talk to students."

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  "I don't care about the rules," Bronson said. "I care about the raid."

  He stopped five feet from Amari. He loomed over him, blocking out the moonlight.

  "Jace was my roommate," Bronson said. "We trained together for three years. His shield discipline was perfect. He knew how to angle against kinetic force. He knew how to ground lightning."

  Bronson looked at Amari with hard, intelligent eyes.

  "The report says he got caught in a magical backlash because he lost aggro on the boss. It says the structure collapsed on him."

  Bronson paused.

  "Jace doesn't lose aggro. And Jace doesn't get crushed by rocks unless he's already dead."

  The big boy leaned down slightly.

  "Tell me what happened in the Nest. The truth."

  Amari looked at him. He saw the grief in Bronson’s eyes, but it was locked down tight behind a wall of discipline. This wasn't Caelum's hysterical guilt. This was a soldier doing a post-mortem.

  Amari relaxed his stance.

  "He didn't lose aggro," Amari said.

  "Then how did the Matriarch hit him?"

  "She hit him because he was immobilized," Amari said. "He took a double-strike from a Guillotine Slam. The first hit cracked his shield. The second shattered it."

  Bronson frowned. "A Guillotine Slam has a three-second wind-up. Jace would have strafed. He would have kited."

  "He couldn't strafe," Amari said coldly. "He was body-blocking for the Prince."

  Bronson went still.

  "The Prince was in the rear," Bronson argued. "Standard formation."

  "The Prince panicked," Amari corrected. "He tripped. He was on the ground, vulnerable. The Matriarch targeted the weakest threat. Jace stepped in to intercept."

  Amari watched Bronson process the tactical layout. The Warrior was building the scene in his mind.

  "Jace took the hit," Amari continued. "He called for support. He called for a physical barrier spell. An Earth Wall or Ice Spire to deflect the second strike."

  "And?" Bronson asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  "And Caelum froze," Amari said. "He had the mana. He had the angle. But he was afraid that if he cast, the spider would look at him."

  Silence stretched in the alley.

  "So Jace waited," Amari finished. "He trusted his Commander. And he died waiting."

  Bronson closed his eyes. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

  When he opened them again, the sadness was gone. Replaced by a cold, heavy resolve.

  "He held the line," Bronson murmured.

  "Until the end," Amari confirmed.

  Bronson looked at the brick wall of the dorm. He punched it.

  It wasn't a rage punch. It was a test. His fist hit the brick with a dull thud. Dust trickled down.

  "Magic didn't save him," Bronson said. "The Prince's mana was useless."

  "Mana fails under fear," Amari said. "The body doesn't."

  Bronson looked at Amari. He really looked at him this time. He looked at the gaunt face, the strange metallic sheen of Amari’s skin in the moonlight.

  "You brought the body back," Bronson said. "The medics said he was wrapped in his cloak. Caelum didn't do that."

  "No," Amari said.

  "And the Matriarch?" Bronson asked. "If Caelum froze... who killed it?"

  Amari didn't answer. He just held Bronson’s gaze.

  Bronson looked at Amari’s hands.

  "I see," Bronson said.

  The big Tank stepped back, opening the path to the boiler room.

  "I'm done trusting mages in a crisis," Bronson said quietly. "I want to learn how to hold the line without them."

  He looked at Amari.

  "Can you teach me?"

  Amari shook his head. "I'm not a teacher. I'm a ghost."

  Amari walked past Bronson. He stopped at the heavy iron door of the boiler room.

  He looked back.

  "But if you want to learn how to be a wall that doesn't break," Amari said, "come inside. The Janitor is hosting a class."

  Bronson hesitated for a second. Then he followed.

  Amari opened the door.

  Heat and the smell of coal rushed out to meet them.

  "Welcome to the Exile."