They say some fates are written in the stars.
But I've learned that the cruelest ones are etched in stone—quietly, stubbornly, and always in blood.
Roderick Vaughn's name had appeared at the top of the Grimoire's next pattern. Not as a threat. Not as a puzzle.
But as a warning.
He was going to die. And I had less than a month to stop it.
The problem was: fate wasn't a blade you could just parry. It was a noose—subtle, tightening, patient. You had to cut it before it noticed.
I found Roderick behind the dueling yard, sharpening his saber in the late autumn light. Crimson leaves fell around him like dying embers.
"Professor Drelmont," he said without looking up. "You rarely visit unless someone's misbehaved."
"Not this time," I said. "I'm here to make you an offer."
He raised an eyebrow. "An offer?"
"I want to accompany your next field mission to the Northern Forest."
Roderick's eyes narrowed. "That's not protocol."
"I'm aware."
