Villainous Instructor at the Academy
Chapter 196: Bone orchard

Chapter 196: Bone orchard

We didn’t speak as we followed the path deeper into the Dorne estate’s northern ridge.

Mira walked ahead, torch in hand, her usual sarcasm shelved somewhere between "ghost-infested attic" and "Felix almost died again." Wallace trudged behind us, fiddling with a ticking device that looked like a mix between a compass and a wind-up mouse. He swore it was calibrated to detect spectral activity.

Felix? He walked beside me, face pale but determined, clutching a worn journal he’d stolen from a sealed chest upstairs.

The journal belonged to his great-grandfather. And it held something dangerous.

Something forbidden.

"According to this," Felix whispered, "there’s a vault beneath the orchard. Buried during the last civil purge."

"The one where House Dorne lost half its bloodline?" Mira asked dryly.

Felix nodded. "The survivors sealed away their... shame. And power."

"Let me guess," Wallace muttered. "You want to open it."

"No," Felix said. "I want to understand it."

"Same thing," Mira grunted. "Especially when it’s cursed."

The orchard looked dead.

Gnarled apple trees stood like bone fingers stabbing the fog. No wind. No birdsong. Only silence.

We passed a crooked scarecrow as we entered. It wore a noble’s mask.

I hate symbolism.

"It should be here," Felix said, stopping near the roots of the oldest tree. "The vault."

Wallace’s device spun wildly.

"Something’s below," he confirmed. "And it’s awake."

I knelt and pressed a hand to the soil. My runes hummed—not violently, but... expectantly. Like something was listening.

I traced a quick pattern: Open / Respect / Descent.

The earth trembled.

Roots parted like fingers, revealing stone steps covered in sigils too old for even me to recognize.

We descended.

The vault smelled of oil, dust, and old sorrow.

The walls were etched with stories—scenes of blood rites, duels between kin, and a crimson river running through a family tree. Mira lit more torches. Wallace dragged his feet. Felix clutched the journal as if it might shield him from memory.

At the end of the vault stood a sarcophagus carved from obsidian.

On its lid: the Dorne crest, cracked down the middle.

"It’s not locked," Felix said.

"That’s never a good sign," I muttered.

Felix reached out anyway.

His hand hovered over the lid.

Then—I stepped forward.

"No," I said firmly. "You don’t touch it."

He looked up, startled. "But I’m the heir."

"You’re not trained," I said. "And your family loved traps more than common sense."

Mira smirked. "He’s got a point."

I traced a detection rune across the lid. It pulsed faintly—then flared red.

Poison ward. Necrotic backlash. And a binding curse that would’ve turned Felix’s soul into mulch.

I disarmed it.

Carefully.

"Now you can touch it."

Felix nodded, nervous.

Together, we lifted the lid.

Inside was a sword.

Simple. Black-bladed. Wrapped in cloth woven from silver thread.

Beside it, a note:

"To the coward who survived: may you grow teeth."

Felix paled.

Mira whistled. "Damn. They really loved you, huh?"

He stared at the sword. "I don’t deserve this."

"Exactly why you do," I said quietly.

When we returned to the surface, the orchard had changed.

The trees stood taller.

The air was warmer.

And the scarecrow was gone.

Felix held the sword like it might vanish. His back was straighter. Eyes sharper.

"Let’s go," he said.

Mira raised a brow. "No whining?"

"Not today."

Wallace muttered, "We’re all going to die."

"Probably," I said. "But at least we’ll look impressive doing it."

We returned just after dawn, boots muddy, clothes reeking of mold and secrets. The Dorne estate was quiet—too quiet. No birds, no servants. Just a heavy stillness, like the walls were holding their breath.

I hated it.

"Should we tell someone what we found?" Wallace asked, rubbing his eyes.

Felix shook his head. "There’s no one left to tell. My family buried it for a reason."

"Burying mistakes doesn’t erase them," Mira muttered.

He didn’t argue.

We reached the guest wing. Garrick sat outside the room doors, arms crossed, half-asleep but alert enough to raise a brow when he saw us.

"You four look like you fought a crypt," he said.

"We did," Mira replied. "And we lost."

Inside, I washed the stench off my hands and stared at my reflection.

There were bags under my eyes. My hair was a mess. And the rune-burn along my left forearm still pulsed faintly from disarming that curse.

I looked like a professor playing adventurer.

No.

I looked like someone trying to outrun death and calling it pedagogy.

A knock.

"Come in."

Roderick entered. Sober. Grim. Holding a letter.

"From Noctis Ardentis," he said. "Headmaster’s seal."

My stomach tensed.

"Good news or bad?"

"Depends how you feel about border breaches."

He handed it over.

I opened it. Read it once. Then again.

The Frostwind Wall had cracked. A rift—small, but real—had appeared north of Silvervale.

A rift.

From the other side.

Where the Blood Mist whispered and old gods wept through their teeth.

They were calling all staff with field experience. Every instructor with war-class clearance.

Including me.

I folded the letter. "When do we leave?"

"Three days."

That night, the students gathered in the parlor.

Felix sat apart, polishing the black blade with quiet reverence. He didn’t speak much. I didn’t push.

Mira braided her hair. Wallace cleaned his tools. Garrick carved a chunk of smoked meat with terrifying focus. Leo, back from a solo errand to town, sat against the hearth, cheeks puffed from overthinking.

It was a rare moment. A still one.

So I ruined it.

"We’re leaving in three days," I announced. "To the Frostwind Wall."

They all looked up.

"Why?" Garrick asked.

"Because the world is ending," Mira said before I could. "Again."

I smiled thinly. "Rift breach. You’ll be accompanying me."

Wallace blinked. "Us?"

"Think of it as a field exam. Just with higher mortality."

Leo groaned. "Can’t we go back to pretending Felix’s estate was the most cursed thing we’d face?"

"Too late," I said. "You’re all involved now."

Felix looked up. "Is it that bad?"

I met his eyes. "It’s worse."

But I didn’t say the other part.

The part that mattered most.

This breach? It wasn’t random. Something—or someone—was accelerating the spread of the Blood Mist.

And I had a theory.

A horrifying, brittle little theory that Cassandra might know why.

We left before dawn.

Roderick handled the logistics. Garrick carried supplies. Mira made sure we didn’t forget food or Felix’s medicine. Leo complained, Wallace tinkered, and I...

...I watched Cassandra.

She hadn’t said a word since the announcement.

Not one.

She moved like a shadow through our preparations—present, but untouched by the weight we all felt.

It unsettled me.

When I’d told them about the Frostwind Rift, she hadn’t flinched. Not even a blink. As if she already knew.

So, as the frostbitten roads unfurled beneath our feet, I slowed my pace and fell in step beside her.

"You’re awfully calm," I said.

She didn’t respond.

"Most people panic when they hear about rifts. You didn’t even blink."

Still silent.

Finally, I sighed. "Cassandra, if there’s something I should know—"

"There is," she said.

I froze.

She turned her head, pale silver eyes glowing faintly under the winter sun.

"You should know that something is waiting beyond that Wall."

My throat tightened. "Waiting for... us?"

"No." Her voice was so soft it felt like it bled into the snow. "For you."

I stopped walking.

The others continued ahead, unaware.

Cassandra paused, one step ahead of me, looking back with a quiet expression. Not frightened. Not smug.

Just sad.

"You carry a name it recognizes," she said.

My voice came out hoarse. "What name?"

She tilted her head slightly. "Lucian? Or Allen?"

My heart stopped.

"You—" I whispered, "—how the hell do you know that?"

She didn’t answer.

Just walked away.

And I... couldn’t move.

We made camp by the frozen ridge that night. Silent pines loomed around us, frost curling through our tents and firelight.

I couldn’t sleep.

The air was too heavy. The runes etched into my gloves itched. And Cassandra’s words rattled like glass in my skull.

Lucian? Or Allen?

No one was supposed to know that.

Not here. Not in this world.

Unless...

Unless someone else had come here too.

Or worse—something had been listening.

I stepped away from camp and summoned my Grimoire of Patterns.

The air shimmered. Runes spilled from the leather like ink bleeding upward.

I flipped to a blank page and whispered, "Search: Rift–Frostwind–Echo."

The grimoire vibrated.

Then it began to write.

Echo Signature: Confirmed.

Voiceprint: Matched.

Name: Allen Cross.

Entity Class: Observer–Tier VII.

Warning: Echo cannot be purged.

My blood ran cold.

Someone—something—out there knew me.

By my real name.

And it was watching.

The dream came on the third night.

It wasn’t like the usual ones—half-formed memories of my past life bleeding into this world. No, this one was cold. Structured. Too sharp to be a dream and too surreal to be real.

I stood in a field of white.

Not snow. Ash.

Mountains loomed in the distance, twisted and blackened like broken teeth. A massive door lay embedded in the earth before me—iron and runes, ancient and pulsing with light. And someone stood at its center, wrapped in torn cloth and silence.

Cassandra.

She turned slowly, eyes glowing like twin moons. Her voice carried on a wind that didn’t blow.

"You shouldn’t be here yet, Allen."

I couldn’t speak.

"You were supposed to stay behind the veil. Stay dead."

My mouth finally moved. "I didn’t have a choice."

"No one does." She stepped forward, leaving no footprints in the ash. "The Rift isn’t a place. It’s a consequence. And now, you’ve made it worse."

The iron door cracked.

A sliver of darkness bled through, too deep and ancient to name.

I looked at her. "What is that?"

"A wound." She stared into it. "A god tried to die here once."

Suddenly, I was yanked backward—out of the dream, out of the Rift.

I woke up choking.

Felix was already vomiting near the fire. Mira clutched her head. Garrick sat with his sword half-drawn, eyes wild. Even Wallace had dropped his tools, staring into the snow like it had whispered to him.

Only Cassandra was calm. Watching the frost fall.

Roderick staggered from his tent, face pale. "Everyone... get up. We’re moving. Now."

I pushed to my feet. "What happened?"

He didn’t look at me. "We’re being hunted."

A long, low howl echoed across the mountain. Not animal. Not beast.

Something older.

"Eyes up!" Garrick barked. "It’s coming from the mist!"

Leo nearly tripped over himself trying to summon a barrier. "Is that thing... even real?!"

I looked at the white horizon.

No tracks.

No sign of movement.

Just a cold that pressed against the soul.

But in my pocket, the Grimoire of Patterns pulsed with heat.

I opened it.

And in a new ink—one I hadn’t summoned—it wrote:

___

Echo Response: Incoming.

Tier VII Observer Class detected. Initiating counter-pattern... failed.

Warning: Entity has marked Subject [Allen Cross].

___

I closed the book slowly.

We weren’t in a survival mission anymore.

This was a reckoning.

And somehow, Cassandra knew it all along.

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