**TEN DAYS BEFORE WINTER SOLSTICE**
The thing about building a team from broken pieces is that eventually, those pieces start fitting together in unexpected ways.
I realized this watching Kieran argue with someone in the dining hall.
"—telling you, necromancy isn't evil if it's done ethically!"
"There's no such thing as ethical necromancy, you absolute lunatic!"
"Says the guy who literally punches ghosts for fun—"
I sat down at their table with my breakfast, interrupting what was clearly an ongoing debate. "Morning. What are we arguing about today?"
The other student—Jakob, a first-year I'd been observing—turned to me with relief. "Thank the gods. Marcus, please tell this idiot that raising the dead is morally reprehensible."
"Depends on the circumstances," I said, taking a bite of food. "Jakob raises dead mice for practice. Kieran thinks this makes him a monster. I think they're both overthinking it."
Jakob blinked. Dark circles under his eyes—not from lack of sleep, from constant mana use. His appearance was almost aggressively average: medium height, medium build, brown hair that never quite sat right, grey eyes that were a shade too pale. The only notable feature was his hands—long fingers, always slightly cold, with black marks under his nails that never quite washed out. Side effect of necromantic magic.
He wore his academy uniform properly, unlike most students. Buttoned up, neat, trying to look respectable despite practicing one of the most stigmatized magical disciplines.
"You know about the mice?" he asked quietly.
"I know everything about everyone I'm interested in. You're Jakob Winters, first-year, self-taught necromancer who's somehow not insane about it. That's rare enough to be noteworthy." I looked at him directly. "Also, you've been attending my morning training sessions for the past week. Invisibly."
He went pale. "How did you—"
"You're good at necromancy. Not as good at stealth as you think. Your undead mice leave traces. Tiny disturbances in mana flow. Luna noticed first, but I verified it myself."
"Are you going to report me? The academy has rules about unauthorized attendance—"
"I'm going to offer you a spot. Officially." I pushed a piece of paper across the table. "Training complex. 4 AM. Tomorrow. Bring your mice."
"Why?"
"Because in seven years, demons are going to pour out of the Eastern Wastes and try to kill everyone. When that happens, I need people who can raise emergency defenses from available materials." I met his grey eyes. "You can raise three mice simultaneously and maintain them for six hours. That's impressive for a first-year. Imagine what you could do with proper training."
"Proper training in necromancy? The academy doesn't teach that."
"The academy doesn't teach a lot of things I know. That's why I'm offering private lessons." I stood. "Think about it. But decide fast. I don't make offers twice."
I left them both staring after me.
Kieran caught up as I exited the dining hall. "You're recruiting a necromancer? That's going to cause problems."
"Everything causes problems. Might as well have useful problems."
"He's a first-year. Barely knows basic combat magic."
"Which is why he needs training. Two months ago, you couldn't sense magical vibrations. Yesterday you detected all five crystals and a hidden ward I didn't tell you about." I stopped walking. "People improve when you give them direction. Jakob has potential. I'm giving him direction."
"What if he turns his talent toward raising human dead? Necromancers have a history of—"
"Going insane and creating undead armies. I know. I've killed at least seven necromancers across various loops." I resumed walking. "Jakob is different. He treats his mice with respect. Gives them names. Mourns when they finally decay beyond repair. That's not the mindset of someone who'll descend into megalomaniacal raising of corpse armies."
"You're basing this on how he treats dead mice?"
"I'm basing it on pattern recognition across 127 loops of experience. You learn to spot the warning signs." We reached the training complex entrance. "Trust me or don't. But he's joining the team."
---
Jakob showed up the next morning.
With him came three mice—animated, moving with unnatural precision, their eyes glowing faint green. He cradled them carefully, treating them like pets instead of magical constructs.
"This is Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle," he said, introducing them. "They're my practice subjects. I've been maintaining them for two weeks now."
Sarah, who'd been warming up, made a face. "They're named after ancient philosophers?"
"I read a lot. It seemed appropriate." Jakob set them down gently. They didn't scurry around like living mice—just stood at attention, waiting. "You said to bring them?"
"I said bring them. I want to see what you can actually do." I gestured to the training floor. "Make them fight."
"Fight? They're mice—"
"They're undead constructs with no pain receptors and unlimited endurance until their bodies decay. Make them fight each other. Show me combat applications."
He looked uncomfortable but complied. The mice moved with disturbing coordination—not animal instinct, but directed purpose. When they "fought," it was precise, calculated, each one targeting joints and weak points with intelligence no living mouse possessed.
"Good," I said after two minutes. "Now make them fight Celeste."
"What?" Both Celeste and Jakob said simultaneously.
"You heard me. Celeste, defend yourself. Non-lethally—they're still his practice subjects. Jakob, have your mice attack. Treat it like real combat."
Celeste looked at me like I'd lost my mind but took a combat stance. Fire flickered around her hands—she'd gotten much better at control.
Jakob hesitated, then directed his mice forward.
What followed was bizarre. Three undead mice, glowing faintly green, coordinating attacks against a teenage girl who was trying very hard not to incinerate them while also not getting bitten by corpses.
"This is the weirdest thing I've ever done," Celeste said, dodging Socrates. "And I once fought a god with you."
"Focus. They're faster than you think—"
Plato got through her defense, climbing her leg with unnatural speed. She yelped, trying to shake it off without hurting it.
"Stop," I called. Jakob immediately recalled his mice. They scurried back to him, waiting patiently.
"What was the point of that?" Celeste demanded, checking for bites. "Besides humiliation?"
"The point is that Jakob's mice are effective combatants. Small, fast, difficult to track, and fearless because they're already dead. Now imagine that scaled up." I looked at Jakob. "How many could you maintain simultaneously? Right now, honestly."
"Three is my limit for extended periods. I could raise maybe six for short bursts, but the control gets sloppy."
"We'll work on that. By the end of winter, I want you maintaining ten simultaneously with precise control. By spring, twenty."
"That's... that's not possible. The mana cost alone—"
"Is manageable if you learn efficient techniques. I know necromancers who maintained fifty constructs. The issue isn't power—it's control architecture. You're micromanaging every mouse individually. We need to teach you command hierarchies."
"Command hierarchies?"
"Raise one 'commander' construct with higher intelligence. Have it control the others. You only manage the commander. Significantly more efficient." I pulled out a book—something I'd acquired from the Twilight Market. "This explains the theory. Banned in most kingdoms because it enables large-scale undead armies. Perfect for your needs."
Jakob took the book reverently. "You're just giving this to me?"
"I'm investing in your potential. Don't make me regret it." I turned to address everyone present—Kieran, Celeste, Luna, Sarah. "This is how we're building this. Individual strengths, collaborative training, pushing boundaries the academy won't touch. Questions?"
Kieran raised his hand. "Is everything you teach technically illegal?"
"Most of it, yes. The academy teaches you to be competent professionals. I'm teaching you to survive apocalypse. Different skill sets require different ethics."
"That's a terrifying answer."
"You're all still here. So either you agree or you're suicidally curious. Either works for me."
---
Later that morning, I found myself cornered in the library by the third recruit.
"You're Marcus Vale." Not a question. A statement. The speaker was a second-year I'd been watching—Mira Sohren, a healer who'd caught my attention for all the wrong reasons.
She was short—barely 5'2"—with dark skin and black hair pulled into dozens of small braids decorated with silver beads. Her eyes were an unusual violet, marking her as descended from one of the old healing bloodlines. She wore the academy uniform modified for practicality—sleeves rolled up to her elbows, showing forearms covered in small scars. Self-inflicted, from practicing healing on herself when practice subjects weren't available.
Dedicated to the point of obsession. Exactly what I needed.
"I am," I confirmed. "And you're Mira Sohren. Second-year. Top of your class in healing theory. Struggling with practical applications because you care too much about perfect results."
"How do you know that?"
"I researched you. You've been attending emergency healing sessions at the city clinic. Volunteering twelve hours a week. Pushing yourself to exhaustion trying to save everyone." I closed my book. "You failed to save three patients last month. It's eating you alive."
Her violet eyes flashed with anger. "That's private—"
"Nothing is private when I'm recruiting. I need to know who I'm working with." I met her gaze calmly. "You're good. Better than most academy healers. But you freeze under pressure when outcomes matter. That's a fatal flaw."
"Then why are you talking to me? If I'm such a failure—"
"I didn't say you were a failure. I said you have a flaw. Flaws can be fixed. Failure is giving up." I pulled out another book. "This covers combat healing. Battlefield medicine. Techniques for stabilizing mortal wounds under active attack. Messy, imperfect, but effective."
She took the book, scanning the first few pages. "This is... brutal. It's treating healing like emergency surgery."
"Because that's what combat healing is. You won't have time for perfect mana circulation or optimal technique. You'll have seconds to keep someone alive. This teaches you how."
"Why give this to me?"
"Because in seven years, there's going to be a war. And wars need healers who can work under pressure without freezing. You have the skill. I can teach you the mindset." I stood. "Training complex. 4 AM. Tomorrow. Bring your medical kit and low expectations. This will be uncomfortable before it gets better."
"Everyone keeps saying that about your training."
"Because it's true. I don't do comfortable. I do effective." I headed for the exit. "Your choice. But decide fast. Hesitation kills patients."
She showed up the next morning.
---
**THAT AFTERNOON**
I found Seraphina on the rooftop, watching storm clouds gather over Valenhall.
"You're building something," she said without turning. "Something different from other loops."
"I'm preparing. That's not new."
"No, this is different. Other loops, you inherited groups or worked alone. This time, you're selecting individuals. Building from the ground up." She turned, crimson eyes thoughtful. "It's more personal. More vulnerable."
"Vulnerable?"
"You're investing emotionally. Not just tactically. Jakob's mice, Kieran's pride, Mira's perfectionism—you're not just training them. You're fixing them."
"That's just efficient team building."
"That's caring. You're terrible at admitting it, but you care whether they succeed." She smiled slightly. "It's why this loop feels different. You're not just trying to survive. You're trying to save specific people."
"And that's bad because?"
"It's not bad. It's dangerous. Caring makes you vulnerable. But it also makes you stronger." She looked back at the storm. "Just remember—some of them will die anyway. No matter how much you train them. No matter how much you care."
"I know."
"Do you? Because watching you with Sarah, with these students, with this whole chaotic family you're building—I'm not sure you do." Her expression softened. "Marcus, I've watched you destroy cities because you stopped caring. This loop, you're caring again. Don't let the inevitable deaths break you back into that person."
"Is this the part where you offer to help pick up the pieces?"
"This is the part where I remind you that pieces break easier the second time." She walked toward the stairs. "Train them well. But prepare yourself for losing some. Because you will. Statistics guarantee it."
She left me alone with storm clouds and uncomfortable truths.
Below, in the training complex, three new recruits were probably wondering what they'd gotten themselves into.
Above, seven years stretched out—not enough time, never enough time, but maybe enough to make a difference.
I closed my eyes and felt the storm coming. Not just the weather. Everything. Azkaros. The mysterious demon meeting in ten days. The inevitable losses.
But also hope. Fragile, dangerous hope that maybe this time, with these specific people, things would be different.
"Pieces break easier the second time," I murmured to myself.
Then I went back down to break and rebuild them anyway.
Because that's what I did.
That's what I'd always done.