The third morning brought rain—a steady drizzle that turned Northport's cobblestones slick and sent merchants scurrying to protect their wares. Dust arrived at the guild hall to find Thornwick waiting with a grim expression that immediately put him on alert.
"We have a problem," Thornwick said without preamble. "A real one, not an exercise. Are you ready for your final test to involve actual consequences?"
"What kind of consequences?"
"The kind where failure means people get hurt." Thornwick led him to the private room from the previous day, where several new documents lay scattered across the table. "Remember the border dispute I showed you yesterday? The situation has escalated faster than anyone expected."
Dust examined the new reports with growing concern. Overnight, skirmishes had broken out along the disputed border. Refugees were fleeing in larger numbers, and both kingdoms had formally requested military assistance from their respective allies. What had been a simmering conflict was now approaching open warfare.
"How is this my final test?" Dust asked.
"Because you're going to help prevent it from becoming a full-scale war." Thornwick pulled out a detailed map marked with recent troop movements. "There's a merchant caravan trapped in the disputed territory—twenty families with valuable cargo that both sides want to seize. If that happens, it will provide the excuse both kingdoms need to escalate further."
"And you want me to... what? Negotiate their safe passage?"
"I want you to get them out before they become casualties or propaganda." Thornwick's expression was deadly serious. "This is the kind of work our graduates do, Dust. Not academic exercises or theoretical problems, but real situations where quick thinking and good judgment can save lives."
The plan was audacious in its simplicity. Dust would travel to the border region as a junior trade representative, ostensibly investigating commercial opportunities but actually locating the trapped caravan and arranging their evacuation. He'd have minimal support and no official authority—success would depend entirely on his ability to navigate a complex and dangerous situation.
"Why me?" Dust asked as they reviewed the mission details. "You must have experienced graduates who could handle this more easily."
"Experience isn't always an advantage in situations like this. You're young, relatively unknown, and your background gives you credibility with common people that trained diplomats lack." Thornwick paused. "More importantly, you understand desperation. Those refugees aren't thinking clearly—they're scared, angry, and making decisions based on emotion rather than logic. You know what that feels like."
Within hours, Dust found himself on a fast horse, riding north through increasingly empty countryside toward a border that was rapidly becoming a war zone. He carried minimal supplies, forged trade credentials that would hold up to casual inspection, and enough silver to bribe his way out of minor difficulties.
The landscape told the story of escalating conflict. Abandoned farmsteads, burned fields, and empty villages marked the route toward the disputed territory. What few people he encountered were heading in the opposite direction, carrying whatever possessions they could manage in their haste to escape.
By evening, Dust reached the town of Millhaven—the last settlement before entering the actual conflict zone. The inn was crowded with refugees, soldiers, and merchants trying to salvage what they could from deteriorating trade relationships. The atmosphere was tense, with everyone aware that they were balanced on the edge of something much worse.
"You're heading the wrong way, friend," the innkeeper told him as he secured a room. "Most sensible folk are getting out while they still can."
"Business doesn't stop for border disputes," Dust replied, maintaining his cover as a trade representative. "My company has contracts to fulfill."
"Your company won't thank you if you end up dead in a ditch."
But the innkeeper's warnings proved valuable in unexpected ways. Over dinner and drinks, Dust listened to refugee stories and slowly pieced together the caravan's likely location. They were trapped in Greyrock Valley, about fifteen miles north—caught between advancing forces from both kingdoms with no clear route to safety.
The next morning, Dust set out into genuinely dangerous territory. The road showed signs of recent fighting—overturned wagons, scattered equipment, and ominous dark stains that he preferred not to examine closely. Twice he had to hide while military patrols passed, unsure whether they represented friend or foe.
Greyrock Valley was exactly as described—a narrow passage between steep hills that provided excellent defensive positions but limited escape routes. The merchant caravan was camped at its center, their wagons arranged in a protective circle that spoke of military experience among the traders.
Approaching the camp required careful negotiation with sentries who were understandably suspicious of strangers. But Dust's cover story held up, and his obvious youth worked in his favor—he looked more like someone's younger brother than a potential threat.
The caravan leader was a weathered woman named Marta Greycloak, whose reputation as a trader was matched only by her skill at keeping people alive in dangerous situations. She listened to Dust's offer of assistance with the skeptical attention it deserved.
"And what exactly can one young trade representative do that twenty experienced merchants can't?" she asked bluntly.
"Get you out of here before you become the excuse for a war," Dust replied with equal directness. "Both sides want your cargo, but more importantly, they want the moral justification that comes from 'protecting' or 'avenging' innocent merchants."
Marta's expression grew thoughtful. "You're saying we're more valuable as martyrs than as survivors."
"I'm saying that letting either side 'rescue' you will give them the excuse they need to escalate. But if you disappear entirely..."
"The excuse disappears too." Marta nodded slowly. "Clever. But how do we vanish twenty wagons and forty people without anyone noticing?"
The solution came from Dust's street experience combined with information he'd gathered during his ride north. There was an old mining road that cut through the hills—abandoned and partially collapsed, but still passable for determined travelers. More importantly, it was forgotten by everyone except locals who'd used it for smuggling in more peaceful times.
"It's dangerous," Dust warned as he sketched the route on Marta's map. "Narrow passages, unstable ground, and no way to get help if something goes wrong. But it leads to neutral territory fifty miles west."
"Dangerous is better than impossible," Marta replied. "When do we leave?"
"Tonight. Under cover of darkness, and in small groups so we don't attract attention."
The evacuation took three nerve-wracking days. Dust guided each group through the treacherous mountain passages, using skills learned in Lower Ashmark's maze of rooftops and hidden passages. Twice they had to hide from military patrols, and once a wagon nearly went over a cliff when part of the old road crumbled.
But by the fourth morning, the entire caravan had reached safety in the neutral territory of Westmarch, their cargo intact and their lives preserved.
"You did good work," Marta told Dust as they parted ways in the border town of Ironbridge. "If you ever decide to leave the trade representative business, you'd make an excellent guide for people in difficult circumstances."
The return journey to Northport gave Dust time to process what he'd accomplished. He'd prevented a war, saved forty lives, and demonstrated capabilities he hadn't known he possessed. But he'd also seen the darker side of the work Thornwick's graduates performed—the weight of responsibility that came with knowledge of larger patterns and forces.
Thornwick was waiting for him at the guild hall, along with Merchant Delaine and a third person Dust didn't recognize—an elderly man with sharp eyes and the bearing of someone accustomed to authority.
"Success, I take it?" Thornwick asked, noting Dust's expression.
"The caravan is safe, and both kingdoms are blaming each other for their disappearance rather than using it as an excuse for escalation," Dust reported. "Though I suspect they'll find other reasons to fight if they really want to."
"Probably. But you bought time for cooler heads to prevail, and you saved forty innocent people from becoming casualties of political ambition." Thornwick gestured to the elderly man. "Dust, I'd like you to meet Master Henrik Blackthorne, Director of the Thornwick Academy."
Blackthorne studied Dust with the intensity of someone who'd spent a lifetime evaluating people's potential. "Gareth tells me you show exceptional promise. Your performance on this mission confirms his assessment."
"Does that mean I pass?" Dust asked.
"It means you've earned the right to choose," Blackthorne replied. "The Academy offers you a full scholarship—three years of intensive education, room and board provided, and guaranteed placement upon graduation. But I want you to understand what you'd be accepting."
"Sir?"
"Our graduates serve causes larger than themselves. They work in shadows, make decisions that affect thousands of lives, and carry burdens that can't be shared with friends or family." Blackthorne's expression was grave. "It's rewarding work, but it's also isolating and dangerous. Many of our students decide the price is too high."
Dust thought about Captain Aldrich's offer—the honest simplicity of life aboard the Sea Witch, with clear responsibilities and straightforward relationships. Then he thought about Clara, still trapped in Lower Ashmark, and all the other innocent people caught in conflicts they couldn't control or escape.
"If I accept," he said slowly, "would I be able to help people like those merchants? People who get caught between forces beyond their understanding?"
"Among other things," Blackthorne confirmed. "Though the help wouldn't always be as direct as what you accomplished this week."
"Then I accept."
Blackthorne smiled for the first time since Dust had met him. "Excellent. Term begins in two weeks. Report to the Academy on the first of next month." He paused. "Oh, and Dust? Well done on the Greyrock Valley operation. It was exactly the kind of work I hope to see from our graduates."
That evening, Dust returned to the Sea Witch to give Captain Aldrich his decision. The captain took the news with good grace, though Dust could see disappointment in his weathered features.
"Can't say I'm surprised," Aldrich said as they stood at the ship's rail. "You've got the look of someone meant for bigger things than hauling cargo." He extended his hand. "Fair winds and following seas, lad. And remember—there's always a berth aboard the Sea Witch if you ever need one."
As Dust packed his few possessions, he reflected on the strange turns his life had taken. Six weeks ago, he'd been a street thief with no prospects. Now he was about to begin an education that would prepare him for work that could shape the fate of nations.
The boy who'd fled Lower Ashmark was gone, replaced by someone capable of navigating complex political situations and making decisions that affected countless lives. But the core remained the same—a determination to help those who couldn't help themselves, and the hard-won wisdom that came from understanding both desperation and hope.
The Thornwick Academy awaited, with all the opportunities and responsibilities it represented.
Dust was ready.