Chapter 8: Into the Wilds

They left the Merchant's Rest at dawn—or what passed for dawn in the underground city, when the alchemical lights shifted from dim amber to bright gold.

Madame Serpine had provided them with supplies, maps, and something even more valuable: a letter of introduction to be presented at the Hidden College. The seal bore her personal sigil, a serpent wrapped around a balance scale, and the grimoire had confirmed it carried genuine power.

"She invested in you," Jak observed as they wound through the Rest's lower levels toward the surface exit. "That letter isn't just courtesy—it's a statement. She's putting her reputation behind your admission."

"I wonder what she expects in return."

"The favor you promised. And probably more—Serpine doesn't invest without expecting returns." Jak shrugged. "But that's future Varen's problem. Present Varen needs to focus on surviving the journey."

The exit from the Merchant's Rest led into a narrow canyon, its walls so high that the sky was visible only as a thin strip of pale blue far above. The air was cold and clean after days underground, sharp with the scent of mountain pine and distant snow.

"Welcome to the Free Territories," Jak said, spreading his arms to encompass the rugged landscape. "No laws, no rules, no safety nets. Just freedom in its rawest form."

"It's beautiful."

"It is. And it's deadly. The two aren't mutually exclusive." Jak consulted the map Serpine had provided. "We follow this canyon east for about two days, then climb into the Ashveil foothills. From there, another two weeks to reach the College's territory—if we don't run into any problems."

"What kind of problems?"

"Bandits. Wild animals. Rogue alchemists who've claimed territories of their own. The occasional natural disaster." Jak started walking. "And that's just the mundane dangers. The Ashveils have a reputation for... strangeness."

"Strangeness how?"

"Places where reality doesn't quite work right. Zones that the Crimson War affected in permanent ways. The old blood alchemists did a lot of experimenting in these mountains, and some of those experiments never stopped."

The grimoire pulsed faster, its rhythm quickening with eager recognition. *The Ashveil range was a stronghold during the war. Many of my previous bearers fought and died there. Their blood soaked into the stone, changed it. Even now, the mountains remember.*

"Comforting," Varen muttered.

---

The first day passed without incident.

They made good time through the canyon, following a path that showed signs of regular use—worn stone, occasional cairns marking turns, the remnants of old campsites. Other travelers used this route, it seemed, though they saw no one else.

"Most people travel in groups," Jak explained when Varen commented on the emptiness. "The solitary traveler is usually either very dangerous or very stupid. We're registering as the former, which keeps the opportunists away."

"Are we very dangerous?"

Jak grinned. "A blood alchemist with a genuine grimoire and a newly awakened silver practitioner? We're terrifying. We just don't look it yet."

They made camp as the thin strip of sky above turned orange with sunset. Jak produced a small stove from his pack—another alchemical device, this one designed to burn without smoke or visible flame—and set about preparing a meal from their supplies.

"Tell me about your training," he said as he cooked. "Not the blood alchemy parts—the regular stuff. Your apprenticeship."

Varen watched the canyon walls darken around them. "There's not much to tell. I was a failure. Couldn't master even basic techniques that children half my age learned easily. My master kept me on out of pity, or so I thought."

"But you weren't really failing."

"No. I was trying to use the wrong type of alchemy. My essence is concentrated—built for blood work, not standard practice. It's like..." He searched for an analogy. "Like trying to power a forge with candles. The energy was there, but the tools couldn't access it."

"And when you discovered blood alchemy?"

"Everything changed. Techniques that had been impossible suddenly made sense. The power was there all along—I just needed the right key to unlock it." Varen accepted the bowl of stew Jak passed him. "Three months of training with the grimoire, and I went from failure to killing six Inquisitors in combat."

"That's quite a learning curve."

"The grimoire accelerates everything. It's not just a book—it's a teacher, a library, a connection to everyone who walked the Red Path before me. When I need to learn something, it's... there. Written directly into my mind."

"Must be nice." Jak stirred his own stew thoughtfully. "I'm learning about silver alchemy the hard way. The daggers give me instincts, reflexes I didn't have before, but they don't explain anything. It's like knowing how to fight without knowing why."

"Maybe the College will help. Serpine said they teach silver practitioners."

"Maybe." Jak didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe they'll see me as a threat. A half-trained silver with no loyalty to their institution, carrying weapons made by someone who left in disagreement."

"You're worried about being rejected?"

"I'm worried about everything. That's how I've stayed alive this long." Jak set down his bowl. "Sleep. I'll take first watch. Tomorrow we start climbing, and that's when the real fun begins."

---

The foothills of the Ashveil Mountains were more challenging than Varen had anticipated.

What looked like gentle slopes from a distance turned out to be steep scrambles over loose rock and treacherous scree. The path, such as it was, wound back and forth in endless switchbacks, gaining elevation in exhausting increments.

But it was the atmosphere that truly unsettled him.

The air felt... charged. Like the moment before a lightning strike, when static electricity raises the hair on your arms. The grimoire hummed constantly against his chest, responding to something in the environment that Varen couldn't quite perceive.

*Blood residue*, the book explained. *The mountains are saturated with essence from the war. Every stone, every tree, every particle of soil carries traces of the power that was unleashed here.*

"Is it dangerous?"

*Not inherently. The residue is too diffuse to have active effects. But it creates... resonance. Blood alchemy becomes easier here, more natural. It's also easier to lose control.*

Varen shared this with Jak, who nodded grimly. "My mother mentioned something similar. She said the Ashveils were where blood alchemists went to push their limits—and where many of them exceeded those limits permanently."

"There must be a reason the College is located here."

"The residue probably helps with training. Accelerates learning, makes techniques more accessible." Jak paused to catch his breath on a rocky outcrop. "It also probably weeds out students who can't handle the pressure. Natural selection for blood practitioners."

They climbed for hours, stopping only briefly to eat and rest. The landscape changed as they ascended—scrubby foothills giving way to proper mountain forest, dark pines that grew tall and straight despite the thin soil. The temperature dropped steadily, and their breath began to mist in the air.

By evening, they'd reached a plateau that offered a view of the territory below. The canyon they'd followed was invisible from here, lost in the folds of the land. Beyond it, the Free Territories stretched to the horizon—a patchwork of forests, plains, and the occasional glint of water.

"We're making good time," Jak said, consulting the map. "Another three days to reach the first major landmark—something called the Bleeding Falls. From there, the map gets vaguer."

"Vaguer how?"

"Serpine's instructions say the path becomes 'apparent to those with the sight.' I'm guessing that means blood sense."

*Correct*, the grimoire confirmed. *The approaches to the College are hidden from ordinary perception. Only practitioners can navigate them.*

"Then I'll lead from there." Varen found a relatively flat spot for sleeping and began unpacking their bedrolls. "For now, let's rest. The climbing will be harder tomorrow."

---

His dreams that night were different.

Instead of the Blood Emperor and his throne of crystallized darkness, Varen found himself in a classroom.

The room was round, with stone walls covered in faded tapestries and a ceiling painted with constellations he didn't recognize. Students sat at curved desks arranged in concentric circles, all facing a central platform where a figure stood in shadow.

"Welcome," the shadowed figure said. Its voice was feminine, ancient, with an undertone that suggested vast power carefully restrained. "You approach the College. It has been long since a genuine grimoire-bearer sought our halls."

"Who are you?"

"I am Sera Nightbloom. I speak for the faculty of the Hidden College." The shadow shifted, and Varen caught a glimpse of pale features, dark hair, eyes that glowed faintly crimson. "We have watched your journey with interest. Your potential is... considerable."

"You've been watching me?"

"The mountains carry echoes of everything that enters them. Your blood sings loudly, Varen Kross. The song reached us weeks ago." Sera moved, and the students' heads followed her motion in unison. "We debated whether to contact you. Some felt you should find your own way. Others worried you might not survive the approach."

"I'm still alive."

"For now. The path ahead holds dangers that even a Natural cannot easily overcome." Sera's eyes seemed to bore into him despite the dream-distance. "I wanted to offer you advice. A gift to speed your journey."

"I'm listening."

"When you reach the Bleeding Falls, do not drink the water. It will offer you visions—true visions, knowledge of your past and future. But the cost is higher than most can pay. The Falls have claimed many who sought shortcuts to wisdom."

"What kind of cost?"

"Blood. Memory. Sometimes sanity." Sera's form began to fade, the classroom dissolving around her. "Trust your grimoire. It knows the safe paths, even if it doesn't always share them. And when you reach our gates... be ready. The admission test has broken stronger practitioners than you."

"Wait—what test?"

But the dream was already ending, the classroom collapsing into formless gray. Varen heard Sera's voice one last time, echoing from a great distance:

"Blood demands blood. Remember that."

---

He woke to find Jak shaking his shoulder urgently.

"Company," the thief whispered. "Coming up the trail. Lots of them."

The early morning light was gray and cold, barely sufficient to see by. Varen's blood sense was still groggy from sleep, but he pushed it outward anyway, searching for the signatures Jak had detected.

He found them. Thirty, maybe forty individuals, approaching from the direction they'd come. Their essence burned with purpose and righteousness—a familiar signature that made his blood run cold.

"Inquisition."

"That's what I was afraid of." Jak was already gathering their gear, moving with desperate efficiency. "They must have tracked us through the underground. Maybe someone at the Rest talked."

"Can we outrun them?"

"For a while. But they'll have horses, supplies, reinforcements. Eventually they'll catch us." Jak slung his pack over his shoulders. "We need to reach College territory before that happens. Even the Inquisition won't risk violating a blood alchemist stronghold."

"How far?"

"Three days, at least. Probably more."

They ran.

The terrain was treacherous for fast movement—loose rocks, hidden roots, branches that seemed to reach out deliberately to snag clothing and tear skin. But Varen and Jak pushed through anyway, desperation lending them speed that common sense would have forbidden.

Behind them, the sounds of pursuit gradually became audible. Horses' hooves on stone. Commands shouted in military cadence. The clink of armor and weapons being readied.

"They're gaining," Jak gasped between breaths. "We need to slow them down."

"How?"

"You're the blood alchemist. Get creative."

---

Varen stopped at a narrow passage between two cliff faces—a chokepoint where the path was barely wide enough for single-file travel. The perfect place for a trap.

"Keep going," he told Jak. "I'll catch up."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that." Varen bit his tongue, gathering blood in his mouth. "Just go. I'll be right behind you."

Jak hesitated, then nodded and continued running. Varen turned to face the direction of pursuit, the grimoire's instructions flowing through his mind.

*Crimson Wall. A defensive technique. Requires significant blood but creates a barrier that only practitioners can pass.*

The first Inquisition soldiers appeared around the bend—mounted cavalry, their horses' eyes wild with exertion. They saw Varen standing alone in the passage and shouted in triumph.

Varen spat his blood onto the stone.

The effect was immediate and dramatic. Crimson light erupted from the ground, forming a wall of pure essence that stretched from cliff to cliff and rose higher than the tallest rider. The horses screamed and reared, throwing several soldiers from their saddles.

The barrier pulsed with power, a physical manifestation of Varen's will. It wouldn't last forever—nothing did—but it would hold long enough.

"Move it!" Jak's voice echoed from ahead.

Varen turned and ran, leaving the Inquisition soldiers beating futilely against the crimson wall behind him.

*Corruption Level: 5%*

*Blood Techniques Mastered: 8*

*Inquisition Forces: Temporarily Blocked*

The mountains rose ahead, promising sanctuary—or death. Either way, there was no turning back.