Chapter 15: The Ghost Exposed

　　The storm became Caden’s only ally. He fled not like a soldier, but like a fox gone to ground, his instincts forged in the quiet terror of the Archives now applied to the screaming chaos of the mountain. The driving rain washed away his tracks and the howling wind swallowed the sounds of his pursuers. But he knew it was a temporary reprieve. The blast of the wyvern-horn had been a flare in the dark, pinpointing his location. He was no longer an observer; he was prey.

　　He found refuge not in a cave or a crevasse, but in the last place any rider would think to look: a forgotten midden heap, piled against the lee side of a collapsed watchtower from a previous era. The stench was foul, but the location was perfect—overlooked and devoid of strategic value. He burrowed into the refuse, the cold and the wet seeping into his bones, and waited. The Archives had taught him that the most valuable skill was not speed, but patience. The ability to be still, to listen, to become part of the scenery.

　　As he shivered in the filth, his mind replayed the moment in the canyon. The raw terror on Violet’s face, the fury on Xaden’s, the sheer, stupid courage of his own action. He had broken his cardinal rule: remain unseen. He had traded his anonymity for their lives. It was a trade he would make again in a heartbeat, but the consequences were now barreling down upon him like an avalanche.

　　Hours passed. The storm began to relent, fading to a sodden drizzle. In the eerie quiet, he heard them. Not the clumsy thrashing of cadets, but the purposeful, quiet movements of professionals. Boots on wet stone. The soft chime of a scabbard against a rock. They were speaking in low, guttural tones—not the voices of students, but of seasoned soldiers.

　　“—signal came from here. The old man. The archivist.”

　　“Soran’s team is sweeping the high ground. We’ll flush him down to the river.”

　　“The General wants him alive. For questioning.”

　　Caden’s blood turned to ice. The General wants him alive. It was as he feared. Lilith Sorrengail was not just aware of the hunt; she was directing it. This was no longer a War Games exercise. This was an extraction.

　　He had to move. Staying still now meant capture, torture, and a silent death that would end any hope Violet had. But movement meant sound, and sound meant death.

　　It was then that a new sound reached him, so faint he almost mistook it for the wind. A rhythmic scraping. Like stone on stone. It was coming from the base of the collapsed watchtower, mere feet from his hiding place. A code. The same simple knock-code Violet had used weeks ago to signal a safe approach to his Archives desk.

　　His breath hitched. It was impossible. A trick.

　　The scraping came again. More insistent. It was the pattern for “friendly.”

　　Hope, a dangerous and fragile thing, sparked in his chest. He had to risk it. He shifted slightly, his hand closing around a sharp piece of rubble. If it was a trap, he would not go quietly.

　　A section of the rubble pile, cleverly arranged to look like a natural collapse, shifted inward. A dark, narrow opening appeared. And a face, pale and streaked with mud, peered out. It was Rhiannon, one of Violet’s most trusted allies, her eyes wide with fear and determination.

　　“Hurry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “They’re almost on top of you.”

　　Caden didn’t question it. He scrambled from the midden heap and squeezed through the opening. Rhiannon pulled him into a low, cramped tunnel that smelled of damp earth and old stone. She quickly replaced the rubble, plunging them into near-total darkness.

　　“This way,” she breathed, grabbing his hand. “And be quiet. The whole mountain is crawling.”

　　They moved in single file, feeling their way along the tunnel. It was an old escape route, one Caden had read about but never seen—a relic from when the watchtower was a functioning fortification. Violet had remembered his lessons. She had not only escaped the canyon; she had used the knowledge he’d given her to save him.

　　After what felt like an eternity, they emerged into a small, dry cavern hidden behind a waterfall whose roar filled the air. A single shuttered lantern provided a dim, golden light. And there, waiting for him, was Violet.

　　She looked exhausted, her uniform torn and stained with blood that was not her own. But her gaze, when it met his, was like tempered steel.

　　“You’re alive,” she said, and it was neither a question nor a greeting. It was an assessment.

　　“Thanks to you,” Caden replied, his voice rough with cold and emotion. He looked around the cavern. Xaden was there, a fresh gash on his forehead, his expression dark and satisfied. Garrick was binding his arm with a strip of cloth. The rest of the squad was there, battered but unbroken. They had all made it. “The horn… it was a desperate act. I revealed myself.”

　　“You saved us,” Xaden stated flatly. “Barlowe’s squad would have crushed us in that canyon. Your ‘desperate act’ bought us the seconds we needed.” He gestured to the tunnel. “And it seems you taught your student a few things about contingency plans.”

　　Violet’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “You said the old builders liked back doors. I just found one.” The smile vanished. “But they know about you now. My mother knows. The Archives are a death trap. You can’t go back.”

　　Caden nodded, the finality of it settling over him. His life as he knew it was over. The Archives, his sanctuary, his prison for twenty years, was lost to him. “I know.”

　　“Good,” Violet said, her tone shifting into that of a commander. “Then it’s time we stopped reacting and started acting. We can’t win a war of attrition against the entire college. We need to end this. Now.”

　　She knelt, sweeping a clear space on the cavern floor. With a piece of charcoal, she began to draw. Not a map of the battlefield, but a schematic of the college headquarters itself.

　　“The War Games end with the capture of the opposing commander’s standard,” she said, her eyes gleaming in the lantern light. “But we’re not playing that game anymore. We’re going to take the war to the commander.”

　　She pointed the charcoal at a specific room on her rough drawing. The war room. Where General Sorrengail and her staff would be directing the final phases of the Games.

　　“We’re not going for a flag,” Violet said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “We’re going for the truth. And you, Caden, are going to get us in.”

　　The fallen knight looked from the determined young faces around him to the drawing on the floor. The path of the stream had led them to the heart of the mountain itself. The ghost was exposed, the knight had fallen, and the only path left was straight through the gates of hell.

　　Chapter 15 - End