Dawn broke with a low mist clinging to the ground and the sharp scent of dew-soaked earth. The students stirred reluctantly from their tents, bleary-eyed and stiff.

Weylan sat up first, brushing leaf litter from his blanket. He stretched and cracked his neck, already hearing the sound of Silvea snapping at someone near the tents.

"No, not like that! You don't roll the canvas with the poles still inside! Gods, did none of you pack a tent before coming here?"

Alina's voice drifted from another corner of camp. "It wouldn't fit in the pack otherwise!"

Silvea's groan was loud enough to echo off the nearby trees.

Faya chased Sir Cloverton out of a pile of folded fabric, giggling, while Ulmenglanz methodically packed her tent into a neat pile.

Erik, by contrast, managed to fold his tent with military precision, even brushing stray debris from the edges before rolling it tight. He earned a rare nod of approval from Silvea, who was busy dragging a half-collapsed tent off Mirabelle.

"You used the guyline as the ridge support. Of course it collapsed. And why do your pegs form a hexagram? Are you trying to summon something with this construction?"

Mirabelle muttered something about structural experimentation and adjusted her robe, clearly not eager to defend her architectural choices.

Kane, still shirtless and drinking something steaming from a dented metal cup, wandered over and raised an eyebrow. "Are we moving anytime soon, or are we holding a festival for the world's worst campers?"

Silvea turned to face him, her hair slightly disheveled, eyes bloodshot. "We strike camp now," she snapped. "And anyone not ready in fifteen minutes carries the supply crate. Without levitation."

That got results.

The pace changed instantly. Tents were torn down with increasing efficiency, if not grace. Faya nearly tripped on a guyline while trying to roll hers. Alina and Mirabelle managed to combine their tents into one lumpy mess before realizing they were using the wrong canvas.

Packs were messily secured, some looking more like distorted bundles than actual gear. Cooking utensils were shoved into every available pocket. The fire pit was doused a second time after Erik pointed out a glowing ember beneath the ash.

Silvea stalked through the chaos, muttering darkly to herself. "Next time, we're doing a whole week of tent drills before we even leave the gate. Gods help me, they can cast fireballs but not pack a tent."

Eventually, all the tents were packed into the floating supply crate, which now bobbed dutifully behind the group like a sluggish magical balloon weighed down by disorganized gear and half-folded canvas. Some tent poles were sticking out and some of the tent tarpaulins were hanging over the edge, as even the bag of holding effect on the crate could not handle the increased volume of the badly stored and packed tents. Mirabelle gave it a suspicious glance, as though it might burst just to spite them.

Weylan helped Ulmenglanz tie down the last flap, so it at least wouldn't fall out while they travelled, then looked over the group. Everyone looked exhausted, some more than others. Faya leaned on her staff, Sir Cloverton peeking from her pouch with a twitching nose. Kane had finally put on a tunic. Erik seemed the only one who looked remotely pleased with himself.

Mirabelle seemed dead on her feet. As soon as the buzz and stress of helping to organize everything, while having not much practical knowledge about camping herself, wore off, she almost dropped. Dark rings beneath her eyes clearly indicated not much sleep. Kane helpfully offered her a cup of the coffee he brewed, which she thankfully accepted.

With the sun finally cresting the canopy, the group trudged back onto the forest pat. Sleep-deprived, poorly packed, but at least mobile. Silvea followed close behind, her expression tight.

* * *

Selvara crouched, utterly still, on the edge of a gnarled pine branch overlooking a shallow glade. Her wings were folded close to her back, breath so slow it barely disturbed the morning fog. Not far below, the revenant team moved with deliberate purpose, cloaked in layers of illusion and dampening wards. Only someone like her could have followed them.

Lyriel, at the center of the formation, maintained the cloaking spell. The air shimmered faintly where her magic pressed against the natural mana flow. The five revenants Kane, Lyriel herself, and three others from the previous semester, walked in single file. They were quiet, confident, too coordinated for students pretending to be on patrol.

Selvara narrowed her eyes, adjusting her perception. The enchantments muffling sound and masking presence were tight. But they were designed to fool watchers from afar, not a dungeon familiar fused with shadows and secrets. She let her presence melt into the moss-dark tree bark, her aura dimming until she was nothing more than a whisper in the canopy.

They arrived at a secluded rise, shielded from casual view by thick brush and crooked stone outcrops. Lyriel dropped the cloaking veil, and Kaelthorne was already waiting.

"You're late," she said, voice low and sharp.

"We couldn't risk being followed," Lyriel replied, her usual whisper even quieter.

Kaelthorne nodded curtly. Her cloak seemed to absorb the last rays of twilight, casting her in silhouette against the craggy ridge. A crude map was spread across a tree stump, pinned in place with knives.

"This is your mission," the professor began, without preamble. "Gelee Royal from the were-bee hive at Everdark canyon. We need it. There's only one nest. Here."

She pointed to a mark at a canyon some way north of a lake. Selvara recognized it instantly. Lake Metatherios.

"You have eight days until the full moon. On that night, all were-creatures transform, including the bees. If you're caught then, you're dead. Or worse."

Kane folded his arms. "And if we're caught before then?"

Kaelthorne gave him a flat look. "Don't be."

A murmur passed through the revenants, but no one else spoke.

"You've been given autonomy, and clearance to use lethal force if necessary. But avoid killing anyone tied to the were-tribes. The balance is delicate. This mission is meant to secure peace, not shatter it."

Lyriel's eyes flicked to the map. "What about return options? Evac?"

Kaelthorne nodded. "Two professors and I will use a siege-magic ritual to create a ward against were-creatures, a day's travel north of the hive. No matter how many follow you, if you reach the warded extraction point, you are safe. You have a time window. Use it."

One of the older revenants, Tamris, if Selvara remembered right, shifted uneasily. "We're students. Why not send actual agents?"

Kaelthorne met his gaze. "Because no one expects a group of students on a survival exercise to be anything but students. You seem harmless. The patrols protecting the excursion group and the main group serve as distractions. This is the only way."

Lyriel scoffed. "You chose us, because we're revenants. We respawn."

Stolen story; please report.

Kaelthorne shrugged. "That was taken into consideration, when we decided who should join the team."

Kane looked at the map. "What about you and the other professors? Couldn't you do it yourself? Better?"

The professor's face took on a deep scowl of annoyance. "I wish we could. The were-bee queen knows each of us. For years. We tried to acquire the substance before. Once even successfully. She knows our magical signature and has taught it to her spawn. Every member of the spawn can sense us. Especially the detector bees. That's the smaller blue glowing ones. We won't get even anywhere near the hive."

The professor folded the map and cast a sealing glyph across it. The faint glow faded into the parchment.

"You do not speak of this. Not to classmates. Not to staff. This mission does not exist."

The revenants exchanged nods. Selvara watched Kane tighten the strap on his bracer, then glance instinctively north, toward the Academy.

Kaelthorne's voice softened just a touch. "And for the love of balance, do not die."

With that, she turned and faded into the trees.

Selvara waited until the last echo of her footfalls was gone, then returned to the camp to inform Weylan.

* * *

Mirabelle yawned and looked around. "Say, do you know where Lyriel is?"

Weylan looked at her suspiciously. "Why do you ask?"

"It's personal. But sorry, what did you want to know again?"

After talking to Selvara, Weylan had gone straight to the only person in the group he suspected had more than the general information they'd all gotten during lessons. She didn't seem to be herself. While she'd been bright awake the last days, now she seemed distracted and easily irritated. He kept his worries to himself and repeated the question. "We're going straight in the direction of Lake Metatherios. You know, the were-people lake? Do you know anything not covered by our charmingly lazy history professor? I'd like to be better prepared, even if this is supposed of one of those exercises meant to train our ability to adapt to surprises."

Mirabelle opened her backpack and started rummaging. She carried even more notebooks and scrolls than he'd expected. And he'd expected quite a lot. He wondered how she transported the required equipment. Did the other priestesses help her?

The book smart priestess triumphantly took out a scroll and gave it to him. "Here. I copied it in the library from the book "Of Realms and Regions: A Survey of the Known World". I've pretty much memorized it by now, but I'd like it back when you're done."

He nodded and went to a secluded spot to study it. After skimming it, he gave a short prayer to Lieselotte. This was exactly what he'd needed.

Excerpt from "Of Realms and Regions: A Survey of the Known World" Chapter XIV: On Lakes Both Wondrous and Cursed By Brother Aldemar of Gildenheim, in the 53. year after the Necromancer War

On the Waters and Wonders of Lake Metatherios

Nestled deep within the southern part of the Forest of Wildewood, lies Lake Metatherios, a body of water most serene in appearance, yet steeped in mystical nature. Unlike common lakes of freshwater origin, the waters of Metatherios bear an enchantment most potent, natural in source yet alchemical in effect. Many a sage has argued whether its nature is a gift from ancient spirits, a curse laid by forgotten gods, or the outcome of hidden wells where magic seeps unbidden from the bones of the world.

Whatever its cause, the lake is known and feared for the strange affliction it bestows upon those who dwell upon its banks: hereditary Therianthropy. Sometimes known as the Were-Sickness. Though scholars and herbalists alike have tested the waters and found no detectable poison, tincture, or essence, none deny the result. To drink of its waters as an outsider causes no visible harm. Yet those born and raised in the basin of Metatherios are marked in subtle and irreversible ways.

The Mark of the Lake-born

Children born of were-kind and raised within the enchanted waters' reach will, upon reaching the years of adolescence, undergo a profound and permanent awakening. Thereafter, they may, at will, assume the form of a specific beast of nature and also a half-way shape: neither fully man nor fully beast, but a melding of both.

The choice of beast is not theirs to make, nor does it follow lines of blood or logic. Though some lineages tend to repeat, the gift, or curse, is capricious. One son may take the shape of a fox, agile and cunning; his sister, a bear of thunderous might; and their mother, a goose of most vengeful disposition. Indeed, the were-goose is the most commonly encountered form, known for its territorial fury and honking war-cries. Their eyes shine silver in the dark, and their bites bruise worse than any dog.

These transformations are not illusions nor glamour. They are complete physical changes, bones and sinews reshaped, fur or feather grown in moments. In their beast-forms, the Lake-born retain their reason and memory, though their thoughts often run with the beast's instincts. A were-hound may grow restless in crowds. A were-otter might long for water no matter the hour. A were-hawk may crave solitude and watchfulness from high places.

Of Boundaries and the Moon's Dominion

This wondrous trait, however, does not travel. Once removed from the broader region of the lake, said by those familiar with it to stretch as far as thirty miles from its outermost reeds, the Lake-born lose their gift. The connection is severed, and with it, the power to transform. Some liken it to a lute unstrung, the potential present, yet useless.

The danger of Metatherios lies not in its quiet banks or fog-draped shallows, but in the time of the full moon. The three full days surrounding it, before, during, and after, see a change not only in form but in temperament. The Lake-born cannot resist the call; they transform, regardless of will. Their animal instincts, usually manageable, swell and surge. They become fierce, territorial, and hostile to all not of the lake. Packs roam. Flights circle overhead. Those born of the lake gather into communes, dens, and flocks, defending their lands and young with tooth and claw. There is no reasoning with them in this state. Few survive such encounters unscathed.

Thus, travelers are advised in the strongest of terms: do not enter the region of Lake Metatherios during the full moon. The forest paths shall be empty, the warning signs clear. Skull tipped poles mark the area most affected. Animals and birds fall silent on those nights.

Final Conclusions

It is worth noting that many of the Lake-born do not see their condition as a curse. To them, it is a birthright, a bond to nature and kin unlike any enjoyed by other peoples. They live apart, governed by instinctual hierarchies and long-standing customs. No central village is recorded, only scattered steadings and wandering bands.

They trade rarely and only with those they trust. Usually, druids or members of the Wildeguard Academy. They speak little of their inner nature. Many scholars who have tried to study them have vanished, or returned with broken minds, muttering of the Goose-Queen, or the midnight howl of the Stoat-King.

In summary, Lake Metatherios is a place of ancient and abiding magic. It warps the flesh, yes, but also the soul. Approach it with awe, but keep thy feet moving, and leave before the moon waxes full. For those who stay, may be torn to pieces.

Addendum to the Survey of Lake Metatherios Concerning the Hive of the Were-Bee Queen, in the Northern Reach

At the ragged edge of the Everdark Canyon, where the crags breathe mist and sunlight dares not linger past midmorn, is the location of the Were-Bee Hive. A circular opening high up in the canyons wall leads to deep caverns. Former natural, but long expanded by were-bee workers.

This hive, unlike the scattered dens and burrows of other Lake-born, is a singular settlement, spun from resinous blue wax and fused with canyon stone. From afar, it hums. A low, continuous vibration, not unlike the chanting of monks.

At the center of this strange bastion dwells the Were-Bee Queen.

Once, she was a woman of the were-folk, her name long lost to oral tale, but upon the coming of her transformation, her form did not waver between beast and human as is the norm. Instead, she became a queen-bee, immense and winged, and she has not shifted since.

Why she remains thus is a matter of fierce scholarly debate.

One prevailing theory draws upon midwifery knowledge: that were-folk retain a single form during pregnancy, lest the babe within come to harm. Bee-queens, by their nature, are said to be perpetually pregnant, producing hundreds of offspring each moon. Thus, it is surmised, the Were-Bee Queen may be locked into her bee-form by the endless state of maternity.

And yet, that does not explain the second mystery: her longevity.

By all accounts, the Hive has endured for over a century, and the same queen rules still. Witnesses describe her as massive, wise-eyed, and strange of speech, her voice buzzing in chords, her gaze timeless. Some whisper she may be immortal, or at least blessed with unnatural life.

Some attribute this to the existence of a mana-nexus hidden deep inside the hive, a confluence of mana-lines and residual enchantments which sustain her.

Others speculate, that she partakes of Gelee Royal. Even gelee royal made by common bees is famed in apothecary lore for its power to mend bone, restore youth, and invigorate the soul. That produced by were-bees in a mana flooded hive from the pollen of the nightbloom, a towering flower that blossoms only at the canyon's shadowed base. This pollen is fatally toxic to mammals, yet bees and other insects, were or otherwise, thrive upon it.

The giant nightbloom flowers are also responsible for the hives ability to sustain themselves, since normal flowers pollen would hardly be enough.

The hivefolk are unlike other were-people. It is said they live in hierarchies, perform dances to communicate, and exude pheromones that influence mood and memory. During the full moon, they become extremely defensive, not unlike a roused army. Their venom burns like fire and causes hallucinations of the ability to fly, according to the tales of the one man who survived a sting.

The amount of sapience of the workers of the hive is a contested topic. Some suspect they are mere extensions of the queen, a kind of insect-hive mind, others suggest they are merely extremely loyal to their hive through some common instinct. They don't seem to possess the ability to transform. Workers stay in giant bee form the size of an average dog; the warriors are humanoid were-bees.

No map of Lake Metatherios is complete without marking the Were-Bee Hive, nor should any traveler pass near the canyon rim.

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