Adom groaned as he dragged himself up the last flight of stairs to his dormitory. Each step felt like a personal betrayal from his lower body. He was eighty years old, not eighteen, and right now every single one of those years seemed determined to make its presence known in his joints.

"This," he muttered to no one in particular, "was a terrible idea."

The hallway stretched before him like an insurmountable desert. His room, normally just a short walk, might as well have been on the other side of the continent. He leaned against the wall, catching his breath.

Biggins had warned him, of course. The old dragon had been quite specific about the pain. "Rewiring your Fluid channels," he'd called it, as if Adom were just some building getting new plumbing. The comparison wasn't entirely inaccurate. For the past seven hours, Biggins had stuck those silver needles into points all over his body, redirecting the flow of Fluid through pathways that—according to conventional magical theory—shouldn't even exist.

"Law couldn't handle it," Biggins had reminded him cheerfully while inserting a particularly painful needle at the base of Adom's skull. "His channels kept collapsing. Like trying to reroute a river through sand."

Adom pushed himself off the wall and shuffled forward. Three more doors. He could make it.

The worst part hadn't been the needles. It had been the moment when Biggins had activated them all simultaneously, sending what felt like liquid fire coursing through Adom's body. He'd expected pain, but not the sensation of being unmade from the inside out, as if every cell were being pulled apart and reassembled according to some new blueprint.

"You're doing well," Biggins had said, peering down at him with those ancient eyes while Adom writhed on the table. "Law screamed much louder."

Small comfort, that.

Two more doors.

When it was over, when the last needle had been removed and Adom could breathe again without feeling like his lungs were filled with broken glass, Biggins had patted him on the shoulder and delivered the final insult.

"We'll need to do this every day for at least a week," he'd said, as if suggesting they meet for lunch. "And you'll need to strengthen your body in between sessions. Running, swimming, weight training—whatever you can manage. The stronger your physical form, the better it can adapt to the new pathways."

One more door.

Adom had asked, in what he considered a very reasonable tone given the circumstances, why no one had ever heard of Axis before. Not in any book, not in any ancient scroll, not in any whispered legend.

"Because I discovered it on my own," Biggins had replied, cleaning his needles with meticulous care. "Born after my kind's time, with no elders to teach me, I had to find my own way. And once I did, well..." He'd paused, looking up with an expression Adom couldn't quite read. "Some knowledge is better kept close."

Adom finally reached his door. He fumbled with the key, his fingers still tingling oddly—an aftereffect of having his Fluid channels rerouted, Biggins had explained. Like pins and needles, but deeper.

The lock clicked open, and Adom practically fell into his room. He didn't bother with the lights, just made a beeline for his bed and collapsed face-first onto it.

"Never again," he groaned into his pillow. Then, after a moment's reflection, amended, "Well, until tomorrow."

Because of course he would go back. The pain was excruciating, the recovery worse, but the potential... The potential was worth it. A form of Fluid manipulation that didn't rely on emotional states? It was unheard of.

And as a mage, such a thing was, to put it mildly, exhilarating.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Biggins had made him promise to spend at least an hour training his body before bed, regardless of how exhausted he felt. "The physical must strengthen alongside the magical," he'd insisted. "Mind, body—all must align for Axis to manifest."

Easy for a dragon to say. They probably didn't feel like they'd been trampled by a herd of silverbacks after a simple acupuncture session.

With a sigh that contained the full weight of his suffering, Adom pushed himself up to sitting. He'd rest for a few minutes, then maybe manage some basic stretches. Perhaps a short jog around the dormitory grounds, if his legs remembered how to function.

A soft blue glow illuminated the darkness of his room. His communication crystal was pulsing in his jacket pocket—someone trying to reach him.

Adom stared at the pocket, weighing the effort of moving against the importance of potential messages. After a moment's deliberation, he reached for the crystal with a wince. Whatever it was, it would have to be extraordinarily important to justify any more movement today.

"Hello?" he managed, his voice rough from the day's ordeal.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite little mage!" Valiant's voice boomed through the crystal with such enthusiasm that Adom had to hold it away from his ear. "How's life treating you? Still doing all that boring reading and whatnot? You know what they say about all work and no play—makes Adom a dull boy! Get it? Because your name sounds like—"

"Hey, Valiant," Adom cut in, too tired for the usual banter.

There was a brief pause.

"Whoa, hey, are you alright?" Valiant asked. "You sound like you just went twelve rounds with a troll. And lost."

"I'm fine," Adom said. "Just tired. It's been a long day."

"A long day of what? Wait, let me guess—you were at that weird shop again, weren't you? The one with the old mage who's definitely not what he seems? I told you that place gives me the creeps. Last time I was there, I swear one of the bottles winked at me. A bottle! With an eye! Or maybe it was an eye in a bottle? Either way, not normal, my friend, not normal at all. Speaking of eyes, did I tell you about that cyclops I met at the tavern last week? But this one was half blood. Human and cyclop. Fascinating fellow, terrible depth perception. Speaking of half blood, I wonder how his dad managed to get his m—"

Adom pinched the bridge of his nose. On any other day, he might have indulged Valiant's meandering conversational style. Today was not that day.

"Why are you calling me, Valiant?"

"Why am I—? Oh!" There was a pause. "Right, right, got sidetracked there. Happens to the best of us. Like this one time when I was supposed to deliver a message to the for my uncle but saw this absolutely magnificent butterfly and ended up three blocks over somehow—"

"Valiant." Adom's patience, already thin, was rapidly evaporating.

"Sorry, sorry. Focus. I'm focused now." There was the sound of a deep breath. "Well, there's someone who wants you dead."

Adom chuckled, though it made his ribs ache. "There's always someone who wants me dead. You'll have to be more specific."

"No, I mean someone with actual money and influence this time. The Belmonts and the Hartwells."

Adom straightened, pain momentarily forgotten.

"You're sure?"

"As sure as I am that trolls smell bad," Valiant confirmed. "And let me tell you, trolls smell really bad. This one time my uncle brought me to—"

"Why?" Adom cut in, redirecting the conversation before it spiraled into another tangent. "What's their issue with me?"

"Oh, right. Well, they're big supporters of the Crown Prince. Not exactly thrilled about you being involved in his arrest. Apparently, they've got a lot riding on him getting acquitted. Investments, political alliances, arranged marriages—the whole noble package deal. If he goes down, they lose big."

Adom nodded to himself. It made sense.

"Do you have proof? Something concrete I could take to my father?"

"Oh, plenty!" Valiant sounded proud. "Got a couple of their messengers on my payroll. Intercepted letters with some very interesting wording."

"Can you get all of it to me? As soon as possible?"

"Already packaged up and ready for delivery. Should be at your door by morning," Valiant said. "I am extremely efficient when it comes to political blackmail material. It's kind of my specialty. Like that time with the enemy gang and the goat—"

"Thank you, Valiant," Adom said firmly, pushing himself off the wall to continue his painful journey down the hallway. "This is extremely helpful."

"No problem, no problem at all. What are friends for if not warning each other about assassination plots? Though I suppose most friends just lend each other books or help move furniture, but that's boring, isn't it? Anyway, I assume you'll be taking this straight to daddy dearest? The advantages of having the commander of the Iron Wolves for a father, am I right? Most people have to actually deal with their own problems, but you just make one call to papa and suddenly—"

"Thanks again, Valiant," Adom said, cutting the connection mid-sentence. He slipped the crystal back into his pocket.

Adom sighed, staring up at the door of his dorm.

*****