The morose minotaur and the socially awkward moth woman shuffled forward.
The insect girl’s antennae stuck straight up, quivering madly. “I’m Inga Thosa Therian, of the Okitori Elite, Grand Archivist of the Eastern Aerie Archive and former sorceress of the Far Cloud Mountain Palace. The Thresher forgot my titles. I’m sure he just forgot. He seems aged.”
Treacle Glimmerhappy sighed and sorrowfully shook his great horned head. “I was a gnome lord. I had titles, too. They don’t matter. Nothing matters now, does it? We’re doomed.”
Logan wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. Gnome lord? The minotaur was at least seven feet tall.
The turtle tapped his staff. “Yes, and one last thing if you please. This last cohort will join the Azure Dragon Clan. May they rise to the occasion.”
“This can’t be!” Rockheart thundered, turning on the old turtle like a cobra poised to strike. “No! They shouldn’t be in my clan. They are weak. It doesn’t look like a single one of them even knows the word discipline. You’re mistaken, I’m sure. Surely, they seem a better fit for the Onyx Tortoise.”
“I dinna ask for them, lad!” The shark man had a definite Scottish-sounding accent. Were all sharks Scottish? It did beg the question.
The turtle just chuckled. “There are no mistakes, Yullis. None at all. Ashvattha decides as it will, and I am but a conduit of the Tree’s guiding power. Although it may seem unlikely to you, in your infinite wisdom, the Tree believes they are best suited to the Azure Dragon Clan. It is the way.”
Rockheart fluttered his rocky wings, a scowl painting his face. “I’ll be talking to Shadowcroft about this,” he snarled.
“Do as you must, Yullis,” the turtle said, “but we all serve the Tree—even our honored headmaster.”
Marko threw his head back. “Ugh, we’re going to have to deal with Chadrigoth and those other uppity, annoying dungeon cores. Doomed isn’t a strong enough word. Yep, Treacle Glimmerhappy, we have nothing to be happy about.”
Logan stepped up. “Whoa now,” he said, raising stubby hands. Stubby restored hands—how cool was that? “Don’t be so quick to give up. Yes, we’re at the bottom of the barrel, but the only way to go is up, am I right?”
“That or die.” Treacle exhaled through his big bull nostrils. “We could die.”
“But we won’t,” Logan said, cutting off that line of thought before it took root. “We’re going to show Rockbutt that he’s put his faith in the wrong dungeon cores.”
Marko looked at his empty goblet. “I like your enthusiasm, Logan, but I’m going to need a lot more wine to even flirt with optimism.”
Treacle turned away. “I need a nap. To forget. To remember. To remember to forget.”
Inga seemed to be deep in thought. Her eyes were completely black and her face expressionless. It was hard to know what she was thinking. Finally, she nodded with determination. “I’d like to see the library before I rejoin the Tree of Souls. And I’m sure there’s a welcome package with an introductory level. That would be fun to read.”
Logan had his work cut out for him. That was okay—owning his own landscaping business had meant he’d learned how to motivate people. They might have been the last cohort sorted, but that didn’t mean they had to be the worst.
Chapter Ten
LOGAN AND THE REST of the incoming freshman class were given a single day of orientation. Inga, the bookworm moth woman, was overjoyed when they were given their DCG, or Dungeon Core Grimoire. It contained the following:
A very encouraging letter from the headmaster, S. Shadowcroft
Their class schedule
A map of the campus
Their cohort and clan assignment
The leaderboard, which would be magically updated as their standings changed
Currently, Logan’s Terrible Twelve wasn’t just the worst cohort in the freshman class, it was the worst team in the entire school—ranked dead last out of the forty-eight cohorts and the one hundred and ninety-two students. Not the most promising or auspicious start to things, but Logan was still convinced that was an edge in its own way. Sure, they were at the bottom, but that meant everyone would discount them and underestimate their abilities.
As for the rest of the facility, turned out the Shadowcroft Academy actually existed in its own pocket dimension, on a sliver of a continent called Arborea. Logan recalled the map on Shadowcroft’s desk with the deserts to the north, the western forests, the vast eastern lake, and the island on Loch Endless. The academy proper was located in a castle on the island. The central keep held the Golden Serpent Hall, the majority of the classrooms, and the four Auspicious wings, each of which housed a clan dormitory, a common room, and a practice hall.
Nestled in a labyrinth-like undercroft below the Golden Serpent Hall was the Codex Athenaeum—a grand library filled with endless manuals and cultivation texts. The Codex Athenaeum reached the cliffs over Loch Endless and boasted a spectacular view of the blue waters, where dark shapes swam in the depths. Logan didn’t think they were guppies. If the monsters spoke, it would probably be with a Scottish accent.
Across the way from the library was something called the Tartarucha Cells. Not even Inga knew what they were.
Outside the keep itself, but within the academy’s towering walls, were four practice fields between the three-story stone dormitory wings.
Monday Orientation passed by in a blur, with Logan spending most of that time outside, on the grounds, checking out the practice fields, walking the walls, and finding his various classrooms. Marko had buddied up to him while Inga spent most of the time nose-deep in a book, studying, while Treacle slept, which only made the minotaur more depressed.
Those two were a mystery to Logan in many ways. It made sense that Logan would be in the Terrible Twelfth, and Marko also seemed to fit the bill. Logan couldn’t help but wonder, however, why Inga and Treacle were in the worst cohort. Inga was incredibly smart and studious—she already seemed to know more about dungeon cores than everyone else combined—and Treacle bulged with bullish muscles. The words of the wizened Threshing Turtle drifted in the back of his mind whenever he thought about his new crew: There are no mistakes. None at all. Ashvattha decides as it will.
There was a reason they were all together, and he would figure out why, come hell or high water.
The four of them ate in the Golden Serpent Hall.
The hall was enormous and even with every student, from every year, clan, and cohort in attendance, there was room to spare. Like everything else at the academy, the hall was sectioned off by clan, and further separated by year. The students ate at enormous oversized wooden tables, polished to a dull glow and edged in the clan colors. It felt a little bit like being back in high school—that or hitting up a chow hall. Everyone formed into little cliques, gossiping and chatting over steaming platters of food.
For Logan, it was a harrowing experience. For one, no one wanted to sit close to them—as though they stank to high heaven and no one could stand the odor. Although, it was possible that Logan did actually stink—being a mushroom had its drawbacks. Two, long communal benches flanked the tables, and thanks to his small stature, he could barely reach the tabletop. He had to sit up on his knees, which certainly wasn’t great for his pride. And lastly was the food itself. They had fresh chicken legs and salty rice. It didn’t taste right. It was too fresh and too cooked. He barely managed to choke the meal down.