They weren't ready.
The courtyard was already stained in the ink of mana.
Purple-black clouds churned overhead where the sky had split, and from the rift, they poured out—limb-stretched aberrants with too many joints and no discernible eyes.
Like marionettes carved from bone.
And they were fast.
Merlin stood at the front of the students, rapier drawn, the tip resting against the cobbled stone. A flicker of lightning whispered across its length.
The other students were still hesitating. Shaking. One girl dropped her staff. Someone screamed.
'Too slow.'
A body slammed into the ground five meters from them—burned, unconscious, still breathing.
"…Fuck," Nathaniel muttered, stepping up beside him. His daggers were already unsheathed, one spinning lazily between his fingers. "They're not waiting around, are they?"
Merlin didn't answer.
'Nine of them. Five heading toward the dorms. Four here.'
'Nathan can handle two.'
'Liliana… one, with support.'
