“Mess hall doesn’t open for another half hour, kid,” one of the cooks proclaimed from behind the counter. “You can sit and wait, but it’s another half hour until the bell goes.”

  Wulf leaned against the mess hall counter from the main-hall side, palms pressing into the hard wood, staring down at the empty trays behind the glass. In the kitchen beyond, cooks scrambled about, mixing bowls, chopping vegetables, or toiling over the stoves. The smells made his stomach gurgle, but he could wait.

  Irmond stood a few paces behind, sitting on the corner of a table, his face buried in his hands with embarrassment.

  He didn’t think Wulf could do it, which only made Wulf want to do it more.

  “Actually, I’m here to see Chef Kennet,” Wulf said.

  “He’s not taking visitors.” The cook, an elf in a white apron, turned away, called something unintelligible out into the kitchen, then picked up a bowl and carried it back into the depths of the kitchen.

  “Wait!” Wulf called. He lifted the sprigs of oregano and put them atop the counter. “Chef? I have something for you!”

  A head perked up from the back of the kitchen. Chef Kennet, a man in a white apron and a bulging belly, stared right at Wulf. His muttonchops trembled, but his eyes narrowed with curiosity when he saw the sprigs of oregano. He stood up from whatever he was doing, then navigated across the kitchen to stand before Wulf.

  “If this is just regular oregano, boy, we have some in the garden,” Chef Kennet said. “You better not have plucked it from there, hm? Taking off a whole sprig isn’t good for the plant—you want to snip the leaves carefully, but leave just enough to—”

  “See for yourself.” Wulf tapped the oregano. “It’s Middle-Wood grade, but I’m sure in your pesto, you could at least raise it to Low-Coal.”

  Chef Kennet was an Ascendant. He wore a leather oven glove on his right arm, which ran all the way up to his elbow, and held his enchanted parchment. He assessed the oregano, then said, “Sure enough, it’s Middle-Wood. But I could raise it to at least Middle-Coal.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Wulf said. “Middle-Coal it is.”

  “But I don’t have time to make anything just for you, son, even if you paid me. We have a whole school to feed.”

  “Not just for me. I dunno what you need it for, but I’m sure you’ll need it.”

  Kennet tilted his head, considering. “Where did you find this?”

  “There are patches of it dotted about the school. Wild, and hidden. You have to know where to look. I’ve got an eye for that kind of thing, though.”

  Kennet snorted. “That’s for sure.”

  “You can have it,” Wulf said, pushing it across the counter. “As long as what you make with it goes to everyone, not just the fourth-years.”

  “As long as they pay their ration chits.”

  Wulf nodded. “Sure.”

  He was getting close. People usually didn’t just let a gift like that, especially from a student, go unnoticed…but maybe he could get something back for it.

  Finally, Chef Kennet asked, “Hey, you’re the Carolaign boy, right?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You want something for this? I don’t suppose you’re rolling in funds?”

  “I’ll—” Wulf tried to act shocked. “Sure, sir. Yes. I’d much appreciate that, sir.”

  Chef Kennet rolled his eyes. “It’s good stuff, and you deserve something for hunting it down. What with…how much you probably had to crawl through to get it.” He motioned at Wulf with his finger.

  Wulf ran his fingers through his hair and pulled out a few twigs. “Wha—oh. Whoops.”

  “Here.” Chef Kennet reached for the coin pouch at his hip and withdrew a handful of silver nuggets each about the size of a fingernail. “Ten silver for that, from the grocery allowance. If you pluck them just by the leaves, they’ll be higher quality, and I’ll give you fifteen silver for the same amount next time.”

  “Sure thing, sir,” Wulf said. He pushed the sprigs of oregano across the counter, and Kennet dropped the handful of silver nuggets in his hand.

  “Pleasure. Now go wash yourself up before you track dirt all across the mess hall.” Kennet snatched up the sprigs of oregano and marched back into the kitchen. “Narsir! Fetch a bucket of water and help me wash this!”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Wulf pocketed most of the silver nuggets, but he flicked one over to Irmond.

  “Smooth,” Irmond muttered.

  “I’m just disappointed you didn’t think I’d get it,” Wulf said, nudging the elf.

  “Well, I won’t bet against you again.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The next morning, Wulf hunted down the tournament admissions office.

  It was on the opposite side of the central butte from Langold’s office, and a little bit of a walk away, but after his morning run with Irmond, he had just enough time. He ran up to the second floor of a gargoyle-covered administrative building, and walked quickly down a hallway with massive stained glass windows on one side, which let in early morning light.

  By the time he reached the end of the hallway, he stopped, then turned to the left and knocked on the door. A plaque hung above it, reading First Year Tournament Admissions.

  He knocked gently, but the door swayed. He pushed it open slowly. It creaked.

  “Welcome!” someone called from the other side of the room. “Sorry about the door! A draft pushed it shut.”

  “No problem,” Wulf said, walking into the room. It was a small office with shelves on all the walls. They sagged under the weight of stacks upon stacks of parchment forms. A small desk sat in the center, and a young woman with frizzy gray hair and mouse ears sat at it, filling out a form with impeccable handwriting. She wore a Middle-Bronze rank badge.

  Probably a TA who got stuck with office duties, but it didn’t seem to hurt her mood.

  “What can I help you with?” she asked, inclining her head. “Actually, scratch that. I know why you’re here, right? For the tournament?”

  “Yeah.” Wulf nodded.

  “Alright, let me find the form.” She pushed back from the table with her legs, and her chair rolled along with her. She dragged herself along the wall until she found a folder she was looking for, and, humming, she rifled through the papers. At last, she pulled out a form and held it up high. “Here it is. First year admissions form, number thirteen-A.”

  She kicked herself back toward the table and set the form down. “I’ll need your name. Oh, once at the top, and another time at the bottom. Doesn’t matter if you don’t have a guild; you can leave that box blank. Once I have that, I can fill in the rest for you. I’ll look up your student number and such.”

  “Got it.” Wulf turned the form around and scrawled his name at the top. Over the years, his handwriting hadn’t gotten any neater. Just faster. Then, he signed at the bottom. “So…how does it work?”

  “Well, since you’re a late entrant, you’ll have to pass the late entrants’ qualifying round. That’s next Firstday. A bit of a free-for-all. Don’t get knocked out of the ring, that sorta thing. They’ll explain more when you get there. Then, over the course of the first half of the semester, you’ll go against your classmates. Single elimination. Fight until they yield—and, tip for you, if you’re losing, just yield. Those guild kids can be nasty, and you don’t want to get any permanent injuries if you don’t have to.”

  “Got it,” Wulf said. But hopefully, if anything, he would be making the others yield.

  “As for your rewards? Well…you’ll get an extra two ration chits for each bracket you rise through, which you can use to get more mana-water at mealtimes. And—”

  “Wait, each bracket? Like each round.”

  “Nah, nah, the overall brackets. See, there’re three. The Low Bracket, where you’ll start. You’ll have to pass the Low Bracket, beat all the other contestants in it, to get admission to the Middle Bracket, unless you want to pay the extra admission fee…three hundred silver. Then you can start in the Middle Bracket.”

  Wulf didn’t have that kind of money.

  “Or, alternatively, you get top ten in the Low Bracket, and you move up to the Middle Bracket naturally. And again, top ten in the Middle Bracket move to the High Bracket. Unless you pay six-hundred silver. You make it to the Middle Bracket, you’ll get noticed by a guild. You make it to the High Bracket and do well, you’re almost guaranteed a seat in an Oronith’s cockpit, and that’s where the main Academy branch always draws their students from.”

  “How many fights?”

  “That depends how many people stay in the bracket and don’t drop out.”

  Wulf nodded in understanding. “Thanks.”

  “Now, wait, what I was saying about the rewards.” The TA dropped her voice. “Look, I run the bets around here, too. You do well, and you make a lot of money for me, I spread the love around, and you’ll get some, too.”

  Wulf chuckled. “Got it.”

  “Next Firstday. Don’t be late.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Seventhday couldn’t come quick enough. Wulf went about the week as normally as he could, but he only crafted enough potions to open and close his storage pendant. Instead, he gathered ingredients and studied his alchemy textbook (which he renewed from the library, an hour late), and sold enhanced oregano to Chef Kennet.

  By the time the week ended, he had doubled the size of his garden inside the pendant. He replaced the rest of his grass with a few sprigs of wild oregano, and added three pots of brandroot—an orange-leafed plant that thrived in the off-season. He’d found them out on their evening patrols with Thalin. (They had been staying on campus, tending to the southern fenlands and keeping the wyrmvines in check—a harmless task.)

  Every day up to Seventhday, he’d traded more wild oregano to Kennet. He trimmed individual leaves off using scissors he’d found discarded in the golem labs, and each batch earned him varying amounts of silver depending on how clean the cuts were.

  At least, most days, he traded for silver. Once, he traded for a canteen of vinegar, which he’d need for his tinctures, and another time, for a flask of mana-wine to partially water his plants with.

  Sure, he could steal that, like he had in the past, but now that he was getting his feet under him, he figured he’d do things the proper way. No need to get himself expelled if he got caught—because that would be indefensible in the eyes of Langold.

  He couldn’t prevent demon attacks or Pilot an Oronith if he got himself caught. Couldn’t travel the world with a reputation of a thief.

  And when Seventhday finally rolled around, they headed out to Arotelk. It was time to put some of his silver to use.