FROST
Chapter 83: Twelve at the Threshold

Chapter 83: Twelve at the Threshold

The simulation had been left in the hands of the Moonstone’s Twelve Academy Professors after East and Cloud departed the moment they had confirmed that there are no other apprentices linked to Silvermist’s mana, an unusual and unsettling move that had the entire academy buzzing with speculation.

These professors—each masters of their respective disciplines, each entrusted with the sacred responsibility of molding the next generation of mages—this time, apprentices—now found themselves at the helm of the aftermath, steering the apprentices back toward the sanctum where Theo and the other medical mages awaited to treat their injuries especially Amethyst’s and Gail’s.

Professor Aelith Redbourne from Section Azurite.

Professor Harry Aelwyn from Section Sphene.

Professor Oliver O’Sullivan from Section Serpentine.

Professor Thaddeus Wrenmoor from Section Beryl.

Professor Elowen Starleaf from Section Carnelian.

Professor Mordric Vale from Section Chalcedony.

Professor Sylphaera Vexwind from Section Chrysoprase.

Professor Alaric Duskwatch from Section Citrine.

Professor Ilyra Moonspire from Section Gypsum.

Professor Bramble Thornwright from Section Topaz.

Professor Cedric Hollowmere from Section Hyacinth.

And Professor Verena Ashglen from Section Schorl—

—each gathered outside the simulation entrances inside the chamber once the apprentices had been safely escorted away. The air was thick with a mixture of confusion, irritation, and sharp, unspoken accusations.

The twelve professors, robed in their distinguished uniforms—richly embroidered versions of the apprentices’ robes with elaborate sigils and ancient weaves of protection and rank—stood solemnly at their designated entrances.

Some peered closely at the doors, others murmured between themselves, casting wary glances. Though they shared the same mission, the undercurrents between them were undeniable—alliances, rivalries, and grudges simmered somewhere seen.

Most harbored suspicions. Some were still trying to understand. And one, in particular, found the situation an affront to his self-appointed dignity: Professor Cedric Hollowmere.

"Hmph," Cedric groaned aloud from one corner, arms folded tightly across his chest, his blue robes shimmering faintly under the simulation chamber’s magical lights.

His brilliant blue eyes, dazzling against his soft peach-toned hair, glared at the sealed doors as if they would confess their secrets if he stared hard enough.

Despite his youthful appearance—looking no older than his mid-thirties—Cedric was, in truth, nearly as ancient as Theo himself, preserved by the slow, enduring burn of pure magic within his veins.

"And pray tell," Cedric muttered in a biting tone, loud enough for all to hear, "why on earth was I not informed about this?" His voice was a melodic tenor, charming in any other circumstance, but now coated in sharp irritation.

He tapped his foot impatiently, his embroidered silver cuffs catching the light as he shifted. He took immense pride in being the unofficial second-in-command after East—a title he proclaimed far more often than anyone else acknowledged.

Nevertheless, his talent was undeniable, and his sharp instincts made his discontent particularly contagious among the professors.

Across the hall, Professor Aelith Redbourne, draped in flowing sapphire robes that accentuated her hourglass figure and God-given melonic gifts, gave a tinkling laugh. It was light and musical, but it carried a mischievous undercurrent as sharp as any dagger.

"Oh, Professor Cedric," Aelith cooed, flicking her glossy copper curls over her shoulder with a teasing smirk, "It’s not as if you’re that important."

The jab hung in the air, deliciously scandalous. Some professors stifled chuckles; others merely smirked behind gloved hands.

At Aelith’s taunt, Professor Thaddeus Wrenmoor of Section Beryl, whose hopeless infatuations were an open secret among the faculty, seemed to physically buckle.

His grayish-green robes flapped pitifully as he, utterly entranced, dropped almost to his knees, eyes glazed over with the helpless lust of a man who had clearly spent too long studying ancient succubi rituals and far too little time practicing self-restraint.

He might have embarrassed himself further—had it not been for Professor Sylphaera Vexwind of Section Chrysoprase.

Sylphaera, ever the passive-aggressive enforcer of decorum, watched the spectacle with her signature look of deadpan exhaustion. Without ceremony or warning, she grabbed Thaddeus by the collar of his ornate robe, hauled him up with surprising strength for her slim figure, and dragged him unceremoniously out of the chamber.

A dull thud echoed as she shoved him against the nearest wall.

"Oh, for the love of the ancients, Thaddeus," Sylphaera grumbled, tightening her grip, "Must you embarrass the entire academy every time Professor Redbourne breathes in your direction?"

Thaddeus, cheeks burning a bright scarlet, muttered incoherent apologies as the rest of the professors pretended not to notice—or pretended poorly, judging by Professor Bramble Thornwright’s snorting laughter somewhere behind a pillar.

Back near the center, Cedric, thoroughly unimpressed, rolled his eyes and adjusted the cuffs of his robes with haughty precision.

"A circus," he muttered under his breath. "We are supposed to be the pillars of Moonstone Academy, and instead, we have a traveling circus. Wow! Life-changing."

Meanwhile, a low buzz of magical energy still lingered near the entrances. The doors of the simulation chambers shimmered unnaturally—as if something had been changed during the apprentices’ trials. Something East had not disclosed.

And the professors, for all their petty squabbling, felt it.

The simulation had ended, yes. But the true mystery was just beginning.

The lingering hum of residual magic pulsed through the stone walls, vibrating faintly beneath the professors’ boots as they gathered closer to the simulation entrances.

The doors, which normally would have sealed themselves into dormant stone slabs after an exercise, now glowed with a faint, otherworldly sigil—a pattern none of them could immediately recognize.

It was Professor Elowen Starleaf, a specialist in arcane inscriptions, who first noticed it.

"Look at this," Elowen murmured, brushing a delicate, gold-inked finger over the glyph. Her silver hair, braided neatly over one shoulder, caught the faint light, giving her an almost ethereal glow. "This isn’t from the academy’s archives. Nor the Council’s standard glyph set."

Professor Verena Ashglen, ever the pragmatist, frowned deeply. "You’re saying this magic didn’t belong to the Guardian realm?"

"Not ours," Elowen confirmed, a thin thread of concern weaving into her usually serene voice. "Or at least... not fully ours."

Professor Mordric Vale, a towering, broad-shouldered figure clad in deep green robes of Section Chalcedony, crossed his arms. His dark brows knitted together as he studied the runes.

"Then whose is it?" Mordric rumbled. His voice sounded like grinding stones—a fitting match for a man whose expertise was earth magic and defensive spells. "Moonstone doesn’t allow foreign enchantments on sacred grounds."

A heavy silence fell over them. It was an unsaid rule: Moonstone was ancient, heavily protected, warded against outside interference for millennia. For something alien to appear inside its very core was unthinkable—and yet here it was, humming against the doors like a heartbeat.

Professor Alaric Duskwatch, a grim, hawk-eyed man from Section Citrine, pulled a thin dagger from beneath his cloak, pressing its enchanted tip lightly against the glyph. A thread of black mist recoiled from the contact, hissing almost like a living thing. His face darkened.

"That’s corruption," Alaric announced, his tone clipped and sharp. "Probably from the apprentices or something planted during the simulation."

Professor Ilyra Moonspire of Section Gypsum, her voice quiet but urgent, stepped forward.

"But how? His Majesties East and Cloud designed the simulation themselves. No one outside the Twelve Guardians and the High Council had access to it." Her moon-pale eyes scanned the others, suspicion flickering across her features.

Professor Harry Aelwyn from Section Sphene, the most irreverent of the group, shrugged. "Or so we were told," he quipped, fiddling absently with a coin between his fingers. "Wouldn’t be the first time Prince East kept a secret. He’s the Grandmaster for a reason, the most intellectual among the Guardians."

Professor Oliver O’Sullivan of Section Serpentine, who rarely spoke unless he deemed it vital, leaned on his ornate staff and muttered in his low, gravelly voice, "Secrets are only dangerous when they’re left to rot. This—" he gestured around them "—this has the stench of something old. Very old."

Professor Bramble Thornwright grinned almost mischievously, though his posture remained tense. "Well, suppose we should poke it with a stick and see if it bites, yeah?"

"No," Cedric barked, the authority snapping back into his voice. "Not yet."

He stalked toward the nearest door, eyes narrowing as he examined the shifting glyphs closer. He extended his hand—not touching, merely sensing—and his frown deepened.

"Whatever this is," Cedric said, voice low and tight, "it was meant to activate under specific conditions. Trigger magic. Highly sophisticated." He paused. "And it involves the apprentices. Probably a few of them."

Professor Aelith cocked her head, her smile disappearing. "A test?"

"Or a trap," Sylphaera added grimly.

At that, the temperature in the hall seemed to drop several degrees.

Then, softly, almost too quietly to be heard, Professor Verena spoke again, voice so grave it stilled them all.

"Look closely."

She gestured to a finer detail that none had caught before: woven subtly into the glyph’s edges were symbols of blood magic—ancient, forbidden sigils long since erased from common magical practice. Magic that could manipulate life itself, bend souls, twist minds.

Professor Thaddeus, recovering some of his dignity, paled visibly. Even Mordric’s fists clenched at his sides.

Blood magic was a relic of the Old Wars, predating the founding of the academies. Its very presence here was a violation against every law of the magical world.

"This should not be here," Elowen whispered, a chill threading her voice.

"And yet it is," Cedric said darkly, stepping back. "Which begs a far graver question..."

He turned, his cape swirling around him, leveling his piercing gaze at the others.

"Who put it here—and what have they done to our apprentices?"

The professors looked at one another, a rare, unanimous understanding forming between them: this was no ordinary error.

Something ancient, something patient, was stirring underneath their feet. And somehow, they had all been dragged into it.

The simulation was merely the beginning.

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