“The four of you... a single test... your Final Exam, together.” He gritted his stony teeth until he could taste the dust. “Why?” he growled.
The yellow-headed mushroom man squinted. “Because we’re in this together. Marko messed up his Placement Exam, and we don’t want him expelled. Or dead. It would probably be death for him. And that’s unacceptable. Where I come from, we have this saying: No soldier left behind. Marko’s part of my squad, and I won’t leave him. Period. End of story.”
Marko scratched his head between his horns. “Let me just say for the record, I agree, Professor. This is a terrible idea. If I didn’t like life so much, I would be very against it.” He shrugged. “Logan does have this way of pulling you into things, though. He’s oddly charismatic for a mushroom.”
Rockheart held up a stone claw. “That is enough from you. You will not talk any more. Not in my presence. Nor will you, Fungaloid.” He glared at Logan. “As bewildering as it is to me, Inga chose long ago to tie her fate to you, and while I fear she is a lost cause, I still have some hope she’ll come around. Actually, my question was directed at the minotaur. Why?”
Treacle Glimmerhappy stood. Somber and serious as a heart attack. The fact that the minotaur was always somber and serious as a heart attack was one of the things Rockheart liked about the man.
His cohort looked at him as he cleared his throat, coughed, and then said in a loud, powerful voice, “Because I like Marko Laskarelis. I find most people tiresome. I find most of life tiresome. But this satyr has a certain spark. Maybe, one day, I could be like him in some small way. If that spark dims, or if it is snuffed out, then perhaps my own uncertain spark will dim and vanish.”
Tears glimmered in the black eyes of the astral moth. The goat boy had a surprised look on his face. And Logan was smiling at his minotaur friend in silent encouragement.
Rockheart found it all nauseating. The whole affair. Emotional and—an even worse transgression—entirely impractical. Sentimentality had no place at the Shadowcroft Academy. Laskarelis was a loose end and a liability. He deserved failure and death in equal measures. Had Treacle Glimmerhappy learned nothing from Rockheart this year?
The mushroom pest turned. “We’re in this together.”
“Despite this ridiculous scheme, the fact remains that you don’t have the power for a sustained bond with three other dungeon cores, Mr. Murray.” Rockheart had studied up on the fungaloid’s strange Symbiosis spores. They were as unprecedented as they were vexing. This whole situation was intolerable.
Inga snorted out an awkward laugh. “You’re telling me. Normally, you’re right. But the Red Lotus Juice works well on an already modified core. It nearly killed him, but Logan has spent the last week tying another knot. He’s boosted his power, tripling the timeframe of the multiple-core Symbiosis. He can bond with up to three cores for a total of six hours. Long enough for us to design and run our dungeon.”
Rockheart stood up from his desk, roaring. “I tolerated you two taking the exams together, but I will not let this travesty continue! All four of you are insane! Insane!”
Treacle popped a clump of grass into his mouth and crunched as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Why was this promising minotaur throwing his life away? Why were the others in the Terrible Twelfth willing to sacrifice themselves for this goatish fool?
The rector prime couldn’t stop himself from shaking. “Well, we’ll just see what Shadowcroft has to say about all this. He couldn’t possibly agree to this nonsense. It’s been pointed out by other professors that it’s not fair to have multiple dungeon cores running dungeons. You’re quadrupling your power.”
“Please, let us consult Shadowcroft as soon as possible,” Inga said coolly, folding her hands together primly. “I would very much like to know his thoughts. From his class, and I quote, ‘The Shadowcroft Academy, above all, is a utilitarian institution, focused on what works, not what’s in style.’”
The insolence of the astral moth infuriated Rockheart further. He swept out of his office—never mind that he was in evening wear—and tromped up the steps, to the very top of the castle. The Terrible Twelfth followed in his wake.
The rector prime didn’t pause as he stormed through the waiting room outside the headmaster’s office. He didn’t even knock.
This was madness. Madness and foolishness in equal measure! Shadowcroft could’ve ended the fungaloid’s shenanigans and he hadn’t. That meant he approved, because nothing—not a single thing—happened at his school that the headmaster didn’t know about.
Shadowcroft’s desk dominated the room, strewn with ivy and linked to the Tree of Souls itself. Behind was his pedestal, where his gem spun slowly. The headmaster himself sat in a chair next to his Crystal Terpsichorean, who was sleeping in a plush little red chair. The dancer obviously needed the rest after a long day of pirouetting, but she woke with yawn at the intrusion. As for the Rosaceae Flysnag, she was awake in her pot, watching her Treowen master read with a look of adoration on her flowery face. The flysnag’s fangs looked particularly sharp. She flung the intruders a nasty glare.
A reading lamp hung over Shadowcroft’s shoulder, illuminating his book with candlelight. Reading glasses were perched on his wooden nose. Shadowcroft didn’t seem a bit annoyed—likely because he had known this debate would end up on his doorstep.
“Yullis!” Shadowcroft was smiling. “I heard both your enthusiastic shouting and your passionate footsteps. Careful, friend. Don’t crack your gem core over this. We’ll suss out this matter like we always do. We’re alive, so we can do wonderful things.”
Rockheart stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, wings folded back like a stately cloak.
Behind him, Inga and Treacle looked vaguely uncomfortable because they were disturbing the headmaster on a Friday night between exams, which was stressful for everyone, especially the person in charge.
Logan and Marko, however, were their usual arrogant selves. They didn’t know their place in the grand scheme of things—that was their real problem. They thought of themselves as special snowflakes, when really they were as replaceable as the numerous cogs Treacle used to build his fanciful machines.
The satyr raised a hand and waved. “Hey, Skip. Kinda cool I know your first name. I’ll call you Headmaster or Mr. Shadowcroft, don’t worry, but I had to call you Skip at least once before I die.”
The mushroom stood with his hands on his hips. A power stance. It was ridiculous because the fungaloid had little of his own strength; he was shamefully relying on his friends for everything. “Headmaster, I want to use my Symbiosis power for the Final Exam. All four of us would like to take the exam together. We’ve talked about it extensively, and we understand the risks. Either we all pass together, or we all fail.”
“Or we die,” Treacle pointed out in a morose voice. “Remember death is an option.”
“Or we die,” the fungaloid agreed. “But we die together. We’re the Terrible Twelfth.”
“And sitting at the bottom of the leaderboard.” The headmaster gestured to the image of the clan rankings shining from his gem. “Without help, it seems likely Marko would fall prey to the Winnowing.” He seemed genuinely concerned. A skull flower drooped.