Aldomere Brackham adjusted his ceremonial outfit in the mirror. Years of competing Archchancellors had refined it into something with gravitas and yet a minimal amount of fuss.
The semester had started and now that he’d battled the warring groups into submission over the timetable, a thousand and one requests for minor shifts had followed. These ranged from the sane — such as maybe don’t put combat and physical conditioning just before advanced alchemy, as battered alchemists tended to lead to explosions — to the petty, in which a supposed adult complained they didn’t like the aura of the room. Which wouldn’t have been a problem if they were an aura expert and not in charge of teaching the course on sanitation and corpse extraction.
They at least believed it; their paper trying to prove that sewers functioned better when aligned with certain crystal patterns had been recalled for the third time for lacking scientific rigour.
Aldomere instead focused on the positives. Mainly one of his favourite moments from the start of a term was approaching: his address to the newest members of the Emissary course of Noxarcer.
It was one of the rare times a personal flaw became a boon.
Being a vampire came with a terrible curse. It wasn't the issue with sunlight — a few cheap enchantments could deal with that — nor was it the thirst. Honestly, even if there weren't bloodbanks it was never that hard to just buy someone's blood from them. Quite often people even volunteered, almost invariably due to some one-sided sex thing Brackham had never understood. It would be like a dwarf wanting to fuck while eating a curry.
No, the greatest curse was the innate desire for theatrics. The grim forces that had twisted the heredity of vampires had, by design or intent, added a need to show off. Maybe it was a way to counteract the bestial rage that could consume them when the hunger grew, but the result was that every vampire tended to have a few things that brought out their inner thespian.
For Brackham it was all about his entrances.
Yes, he could've just walked into the room. Or maybe he could've teleported, a casual show of one of the most lauded powers in the realms. But that would've been understated power, as his teleportation was rather seamless and he could appear in the span of a heartbeat.
That was an impressive entrance when attacking a delving party or surprising a budget meeting. But with students they tended not to notice, too wrapped up in their own nonsense. Leaving him forced to awkwardly wait or shout for attention.
Instead he went for the bats.
His body shifted, [Vampiric Forms] activating, his smile disappearing into fluttering smoke. It was, even after untold years of experience, a disorientating shift. He wheeled through the halls, his vision split across a hundred bodies, focusing on keeping them together in a tight black swarm.
He made extra sure to ensure the bat that used to be his pancreas was in the middle of the group. For unknown reasons it liked to wander off if he didn’t pay attention.
Hundreds of bats streamed into the auditorium. Through his many eyes he took in the room’s disposition before they could react to his presence.
There was, as ever, the general split of Dynasty students and Scholars: the Dynasty students to the right, the Scholars to the left, with the brave — or just overly friendly — attempting to mix in the middle. He knew the Dynasty students were to blame for this odd tradition, but outside of assigned seating there wasn’t all that much that could be done.
Some of the Dynasty sat with easy confidence, backs loose, expressions bored in the way of those who had grown up knowing they would be here. Others were stiffer, shoulders tight, eyes flicking to the exits — the ones who understood that a right of passage could still burn.
They looked like a good group this year. He’d seen the tests and some very promising classes had been awarded. Even as the lab-coat-wearing part of his brain labelled them test subjects.
He did spot his actual research subject in the crowd. Oz sat near the middle but still leaning towards the left. He looked grumpy, but that could’ve just been his face. Or it might’ve been the fact he sat between a pair of students who were talking across him. The first was the werewolf Angie, a girl whose sad misfortune of meeting Rathbone had given him a great deal of leverage to slap the board away from the classing process. The other was a surprise: Bless, and definitely not Blessica, as her entry in the preferred name section of her induction interview had made abundantly clear with multiple exclamation points and underlines.
Aldo briefly wondered what had brought the three together.
His attention lingered on Oz longer than it should have. The investigation reports surfaced unbidden. Mental intrusion checks were never suggested lightly. They’d come back inconclusive, a result of the bleed from his classing no doubt, and he’d been apparently frustrating difficult for the expert to assess even when Oz did his best to let the man in his natural resistance to such examinations was incredibly high. Yet even the idea that an expert was required was enough to make both Noxarcer and Aldo himself furious.
He couldn’t even imagine how Venna would take that update. The last time she’d got news this bad she’d turned a mountain into four different hills.
Putting that out of his mind, he took in the rest of the room. He noticed people straighten up, their eyes drawn to the bats and the sound of beating wings.
There were the keen ones up front, who did their best to radiate pure academic desire. Some were, of course, brown-nosers hoping to score some imagined benefit from being keen. It was easy to sort them out from the genuinely obsessed. That true hunger that shone in their eyes reminded him of a vampire after a long day with a missed lunch — that kind of mood which got you relentlessly snacky.
A few of the Scholars were already taking notes. Desperate to show willing even if everything he was going to cover was all in the brick-sized induction text. This speech was more about hammering the points home.
The bats came together, and in a deeply unpleasant sensation that was only worth it for a truly epic entrance, Aldo resolved into his natural form.
“Welcome, students of our prestigious Emissary course. I am the Archchancellor of Netherstone, Aldimere Brackham. I am pleased to see new faces committed to what many consider the most vaunted career in the Republic: the management of our Emissary dungeons.”
A ripple of reaction followed. Dynasty students inclined their heads with polite acknowledgement, as if greeting a senior relative. Among the Scholars there was a different energy — straightened backs, sharpened attention, the faint thrill of proximity to real authority.
“As Envoys, your role is simple. You are the ones expanding our reach, anchoring new dungeons in the mortal realms, and securing our future.”
“This challenge is something you’ve earned. Getting this far can be considered a grand achievement.”
He let his gaze drift deliberately to the right side of the hall. A few Dynasty students met it easily, confidence born of tutors, legacy, and expectation. Others avoided it entirely. On the left, several Scholars looked faintly stunned — as it settled in they were really here.
To be fair to the Dynasty students, they did have to pass some quite challenging exams. They had, of course, benefited from private tutors and generations of their family guiding them through the process. Still, the competition was nothing compared to what the Scholars had to endure.
“Which is good, as you do not want to come up short. The path of an Emissary is to put your very souls on the line to bring the mortals fresh challenges, to help them empower their world and feed ours. This is not a challenge for the faint of heart. It is a battle of skill, creativity, and grit, all balanced against risk. To be an Emissary is to face death, with the highest rates of core cracking of any dungeon role out there.”
There it was. The quiet intake of breath. A Dynasty girl’s fingers tightened around the arm of her chair. One Scholar swallowed hard, then kept writing anyway.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He always saw worried looks when he said that. His eyes found Oz in the crowd. The gauntlet runner was watching him, totally unbothered by the threat. Brackham had failed to keep up with the young man’s development in the last couple of weeks, so he could only hope none of this came as a surprise. Given his neutral expression, Oz was either already aware — or totally unimpressed by the reveal.
Considering he’d beaten a champion to death with a door, it could go either way.
“It’s also the beginning of the real challenge. This week we will be granting you your classes, introducing you to the course, and marking out the foundations that will be required for you to progress.”
“You’ll be tested and form your initial battle groups. The hundred and fifty of you will be divided into five groups of thirty. Among them, you will then form teams of six. Your first task is to work with the higher years to populate this year’s dungeons, acting as templates that you will refine through direct clashes with the mortal delvers who come to challenge Noxarcer.”
That finally drew murmurs. Templates were real. Immediate. Not theoretical. A Dynasty boy grinned openly. A Scholar in the second row mouthed the word templates as if committing it to memory.
“Noxarcer sits on a confluence of realms. Multiple worlds can access our dungeon, and the mortal inhabitants of these realms have formed places of learning connected to their worlds. Like Noxarcer, these institutions are the pinnacle of their realms. They will send their best and brightest against you.”
“The generations of students you face may well be the same delvers you will encounter for years to come. Above all else, it will be your task to teach them what it means to delve a dungeon.”
Aldo felt the dungeon stir faintly beneath the hall, as if in agreement. A reminder: this was not a metaphor.
“You will teach them that with risk comes reward. That a lack of respect leads only to temporary death.”
“I will be clear here, as there is always someone who does not understand this. Someone who forges a grudge as their template is brought low, or who sees a talented mortal thrive.”
“The Republic believes in respect. They enter the dungeon and bring us the mana that fuels our world. We want them to come back. We want delvers to have long lives in our dungeons, even if that means we have to pay to resurrect them.”
Some Dynasty students frowned at that. The Scholars did not. They were always more aware of the cost of mana.
“I bring this up because it is a matter of respect. It is the very core of being an Emissary. Do not abuse this.”
“They are not like us. For most of our interactions, you’ll be using templates. If you fall, it can be galling, but your soul remains intact.”
“And don’t be arrogant, think that because we can resurrect it is the same. If they die, it is worse than when we must be resurrected by a dungeon. It damages our soul. It can sap our strength. For them, it is all that and more.”
“We can stand and fight after a resurrection — maybe not as well — and too many resurrections will see you permanently fall. For them, a resurrection can damage their connection to their power, damage their mind, and in the worst cases permanently weaken their soul.”
This time the silence held. Even the confident ones were listening now.
“If they best you, if they irritate you, and you’re tempted to go beyond what we consider a respectful engagement to soothe your wounded pride, you will be removed from this course.”
“Equally, this is a relationship borne of trust. There are always some among them who don’t know how to behave. Those who try to use us to resolve their mortal grudges. Those who disrespect our dead. Or who try to use powers borrowed from their seniors.”
Aldomere turned just enough to be looking at the right side of the room, but not so far that he couldn’t deny it when Rathbone inevitably whined about it later. Some Dynasty students stiffened. One young man straightened as if bracing for a blow. A Scholar near the aisle glanced sideways, clearly realising this was not meant for them.
“They tend to be the sons of the wealthy and powerful from their world. They believe the rules don’t apply to them. That they shouldn’t respect the unspoken contract of the dungeon. That no matter that the medium is violence, this is a place of learning, not a place to dominate with cruelty and stolen power.”
There were no smiles now. Even those who had come in assuming their lineage insulated them were starting to look uncertain.
The rules of the Republic’s dungeons were never directly communicated to the delvers. Generally, an agreement was struck with the world’s gods — or at least those with believers who’d benefit from gaining strength from the dungeons — to communicate it. Even then, the backup plan was to rely heavily on word of mouth about the retributions to spread the knowledge among mortals.
Still, there were always fools who thought such rules didn’t apply to them.
“When that lack of respect is noticed, a response will be provided. And we will take our pound of flesh.” Aldo almost hissed. A chill moved through the hall. A Scholar actually flinched. A Dynasty girl’s lips pressed thin, calculation replacing bravado.
The mortal races — the sun elves and humans the greatest offenders — had brought some inventive insults into the dungeon over the years of his tenure. The worst had been a magically bound slave brought in as a protector for a particularly untalented noble heir.
He’d had to send the librarians out after the family of the idiot responsible for that transgression, and the mortal had been provided asylum in another realm.
That, too, landed. Not the threat — but the certainty that it would be acted on.
Aldo ended the silence with a smile and a wave. Behind him, the chalkboard shifted and revealed a triangle, upon each point of which was a label.
“Now let us talk about the main focus of the course. Emissary Skills.”
A subtle change rippled through the room. This was what they wanted to know, to hear it confirmed, the great focus of Noxarcer.
“We have a long tradition of learning by doing. There are four main components to the Emissary Skills.”
“Dungeonomics. Theory will focus on what can be offered without getting your dungeon plundered into oblivion, and practice will teach you about creating these rewards and creating a proportionate amount of risk for said rewards.”
Several Scholars leaned forward as one. One particular muscular Dynasty student frowned.
“Next up is Dungeoneering. An Emissary dungeon is ever-changing. The theory will look at how threats must be paced, how rooms must be designed to flow naturally from one another, and how branching paths must offer real change in what challenges are faced.”
“The practical will be in being in the dungeon, running test delves, and asking yourself a simple question: does this feel like an adventure?”
That word — adventure — drew a strange mix of reactions. Excitement from some. Unease from others who had imagined something colder, more controlled.
“Last is the foundation. Combat skills.”
“Now some of you might believe that you’re pursuing a role like an Overseer, or perhaps a Builder. That you won’t be facing off against delvers regularly.”
“Well, if you wanted to be that kind of specialist, you should’ve picked the specialised courses.” A few Dynasty students winced. Someone in Scholar grey actually smiled.
“An Emissary Overseer might stand in a room with untold minions, directing the battle and fully leveraging their observational skills and buffs.”
“An Emissary Builder might battle by reshaping the dungeon around them.”
“To be an Emissary is to be part of the challenge.”
“In a constantly shifting dungeon, with streams of eager delvers, there’s no space for a core-classed individual to sit at the back.” That, more than anything, seemed to settle the room. They wanted purpose, Noxarcer would provide it, there was no space to coast.
“Combat is not purely practical. Theory will focus heavily on rules of honour.”
“Yes, it might be best to charge and splatter the foe the second they enter the room. Perhaps a Ranger should sneak up behind them and stab their healer in the back.”
“Sometimes that is appropriate. Other times, it lacks respect.”
“Our goal — remember — is to present a surmountable challenge.”
A Scholar wrote that word down carefully: surmountable. Aldo held back a smile.
“The final core skill is what everyone calls Three-C. Cultural Collusion and Camouflage.”
“The name Emissary was chosen because we are diplomats. We seek a compromise that benefits us, yet must give them enough to keep them happy.”
“To do this best, we need to understand the mortals.”
“We have invariably found that more visits are given to places that feel familiar. Delvers will value artefacts that use their cultural patterns more. They will engage more with puzzles that connect with their heritage. They will seek out fights with those who imitate their own martial traditions.”
“It affects everything we do here. It is a catalyst to earn more.”
“To be an Emissary is not just to be an unstoppable warrior, a peerless archmage, or a genius artificer.”
“It is to have that skill and put your pride second. To apply that skill to draw out more mana. To offer a path forward for mortals.”
“To create a path for challenge so finely balanced you can elevate their skills without crushing the potential within.”
“You will be slain. You will be brought low.” A few Dynasty students bristled at that, instinctively rejecting the notion. The Scholars did not. Many had already learned that survival and success were not the same thing.
“But it will not be a failure if you do it right.”
“There is no greater triumph for an Emissary than seeing the delvers outgrow your dungeon.”
“Even if they must stand atop hundreds of our templates.”
“For in that, you have crafted someone whose mana is so much more valuable to us.”
That was it. The quiet truth beneath everything. Growth. Compounding returns.
“A group of five E-Tier delvers on a dungeon run is not even equal to a single D-Tier delver.”
“And that difference only increases as we raise their power.” The Dynasty students who understood economics nodded slowly. The Scholars already knew — they had lived their entire lives as proof of it.
“That,” Aldomere said, his voice calm, assured, and utterly certain, “is what it means to be an Emissary.”
He let the silence sit. Let it settle into bone and memory. Noxarcer itself seemed to exhale, the faint pressure of a vast intelligence satisfied that its intent had been spoken aloud.
