The city of Mirage lived up to its name.
From afar it was only a pale shimmer caught between mountains—too soft to be stone, too solid to be mist. But up close, through its veils of cloud and magic and watching eyes, it was a city more real than anything Elias Marlow had ever known.
Elias stood before the narrow stone bridge that led into the Shadow Path Office, the highest division of Mirage's intelligence machine. He exhaled a thin breath into the morning fog. It curled and vanished, swallowed as though even the air obeyed secrecy here.
He adjusted the collar of his plain dark coat. The fabric scratched at his neck. He ignored it.
He had learned to ignore far worse.
A bell chimed somewhere beyond the fog—a soft, hollow sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. That meant the door was open.
Elias stepped inside.
The interior was dim, lit only by the dull glow of lantern crystals set behind thick paper screens. The shadows here behaved oddly—stretching a little too far, fading a little too sharply. The walls swallowed sound, even his footsteps.
He liked that.
At the far end of the narrow hall sat a desk and behind it, an old clerk with a quill the color of bone. Elias assumed this was the person to evaluate if he'd be permitted to actually get to the interview. He had been researching how this worked and managed to find out that there's actually two interviews not one.The clerk didn't look up when Elias approached, only snapped his fingers once.
A folder rose from a stack and drifted into the air.
Elias's folder.
The clerk opened it with a deliberate slowness, making Elias stand still in the center of the room—not because he asked, but because the room itself seemed to expect silence.
"Elias Marlow," the clerk said at last, voice as thin as parchment. "Age eighteen. Human. No known family."
The quill scratched.
"Raised in the Cloisters, the orphan wards of lower Mirage. Minimal possessions. No formal guardian. No records of apprenticeship."
Elias kept his eyes forward.
The clerk's voice shifted—barely, but enough.
"Yet you show no signs of malnutrition, nor lack of education. You read above average. Write fully. And your physical conditioning is… unusual for an unsponsored ward of the crown"
" political way of stating that he's orphaned" he thought but said nothing.
The quill continued.
"Schooled by necessity, then," the clerk murmured. "No attachments. No affiliations. Petty theft—unproven." A glance over the folder. "Good. Would've been more concerning if it were proven."
For a moment, Elias wasn't sure if that was humor.
He decided probably not.
Then the clerk paused, squinting at the page.
"Light sensitivity," he muttered, tapping the parchment. "Severe, according to the healer who evaluated you."
Elias's jaw tightened.
It wasn't severe. It was only a problem when he was forced to stand under bright sun for too long. Or when lanterns blazed too suddenly. Or when reflections stabbed at him like knives. Or—
No. Not severe. Just inconvenient.
"And yet," the clerk continued, "night vision… exceptional. Near preternatural." His voice lowered. "Records say you can see in nearly perfect darkness."
Nearly.
Sometimes he saw better than that.
Sometimes darkness wasn't dark at all.
The clerk closed the folder.
"Very well. Step forward."
Elias obeyed.
A single candle sat between them on the desk. Just one. A small flame, its light soft and harmless.
But when Elias came closer, the shadows behind him moved.
They didn't stretch or flicker.
They leaned toward him.
Just slightly.
Just enough to be noticed.
The clerk's eyes sharpened.
"Interesting," he said quietly. "And you have no formal training?"
"No," Elias said.
"No mentor?"
"No."
"No… visions? Whispers? Nightmares?"
Elias hesitated.
He had dreams—fleeting, strange, and not entirely his own if he admitted the truth to only himself.
Dreams of standing in darkness that wasn't absence but presence. Not cold but warm and inviting like home rather than frightening abyss it should have been.
Dreams of things that moved like ideas instead of shapes. Abstract and dreamy yet clearly defined and utterly terrifying in it's paradoxical nature
But he wasn't going to say that.
"No," he answered.
The clerk made a small note.
Then he snapped the folder shut.
"Your file will be reviewed by the Inner Sanctum," he said. "Until then, you will undergo preliminary testing. This is not optional."
Elias inclined his head.
The old man leaned forward. For the first time, his expression softened—not kindly, but knowingly.
"You seem quiet by nature," he said. "A good trait here."
Silence stretched.
"And you know how to stay unseen?"
"I've had practice," Elias replied.
"Oh yes," the clerk whispered. "You Cloister children always do."
"You will proceed to the assessment hall. Do not speak to anyone unless spoken to. Do not wander. And do not touch the walls."
Elias blinked.
"…Why the walls?"
The clerk gave him a thin smile.
"Because they listen."
Elias wasn't sure if he meant that literally.
He also wasn't sure it mattered at all. Perhaps it was what went for humor in this facility.
He bowed slightly, turned, and walked toward the door at the end of the hall. As he went, the candle flame guttered—
and all the shadows swayed toward him again, subtle but unmistakable.
The clerk watched him go.
When Elias reached the door, the clerk whispered so softly that even the walls barely heard:
"Let us see what you truly are"
And Elias stepped through, to the corridor without a name. People thought it funny since those who walked it usually haven't had the chance to make a name for themselves.
Most corridors in the academy of the Veiled Eye had at least a title or a whispered nickname — the Archive Spine, the Iron Steps, the Whisperwell — but this one was deliberately left blank on every map and every tongue. Its stones were old, polished smooth by the passing of those who were meant to see it, those whose very being was meant for shadows instead of light of day.
Elias Marlow walked it alone.
He moved without hurry but with purpose, his steps quiet, almost instinctively soft. The torches along the corridor guttered as he passed, their flames shrinking as if bowing away from him. Shadows clung to the edges of his dark coat, their weight familiar, comforting — though he took care not to let them breathe too freely. Not here.
The door at the end of the hallway was plain, but the sigil burned into it was not.
A simple eye, half-lidded. Watching nothing. Seeing everything.
He knocked once.
The door opened of its own accord.
The Interview RoomThe chamber inside was small, circular, and lit by a single hanging lantern that barely pushed the darkness back. A desk of darkwood stood in the center, surrounded by enough space to move, to fight, or to judge someone's posture from every angle.
A man sat behind the desk — gray hair, gray robe, and an expression so unreadable it might as well have been carved from the stone.
"Elias Marlow," he said.
Elias bowed.
"Sit."
He did. The chair was uncomfortable. Probably by design.
The examiner opened a thin folder and began reading. Elias recognized his entire childhood in those sheets — market mischief, survival training scores, stealth aptitude notes from various instructors, recurring comments about behavioral control, discipline, adaptability, and a particularly irritating remark noting "Marlow listens too much. Either a strength or a flaw."
He could practically hear the instructors voice who gave that remark,
"It must have been that muscle head Ginto in charge of physical conditioning " he thought irritated but he kept his face blank.
The examiner hummed once, without looking up.
"You learned early to keep quiet."
A statement, not a compliment.
"You preferred shadows," the man continued. "Not because they hid you. But because they felt familiar."
They seemed to be fishing for knowledge about his personality and how he thought.
Elias offered nothing.
Strangely this seemed to satisfy the examiner.
"You pickpocketed food, tools, even a ring off a magistrate's belt," the man recited calmly. "Yet you never involved yourself with Mirage's underworld. No dealings with the Black Quarters. No ties to the Beggar Lords. No participation in the illicit markets."
A page turned.
Elias suppressed a smile at that one, he had some contacts in black markets, few discreet people who he sold his more illegal goods he managed to procure. He had always took great care to avoid detection and used middlemen when needed to keep distance. Good to know his efforts weren't waisted.
"You were clever enough to steal," the man said, voice soft, "but wise enough to avoid becoming owned by the ones who would buy your talent."
Silence stretched.
Only the faint rustle of pages marked the passing minutes. Elias kept his gaze steady on the far wall, hands resting lightly on his knees, posture relaxed but alert — the way the Academy had drilled into him since childhood. He inhaled the familiar scent of old ink, dust, and cold stone.
At last, the examiner exhaled through his nose. Not disappointment. Not approval. Just… assessment.
A fingertip tapped once against the parchment.
" kept to the markets," the examiner continued, reading. "Not the alleys. You stole, but you never joined the guilds. You hid your talents, but you never hid yourself. And when cornered, you ran rather than fought." His eyes lifted. "Not because you were afraid. But because you were thinking."
No reaction.
"It seems their operatives have been slacking, if they believe me to be running away from fights most of my childhood" Elias thought almost amused.
A thin smile ghosted over the examiner's lips.
"Good. You listen."
He closed the folder with deliberate softness, as if sealing a verdict.
"Let us see what you truly are," he murmured. "Just another orphan with clever hands and a bloodline that calls to shadows… or something more. Hmm. I wonder."
He stood.
"Welcome to the Shadow Path, Elias Marlow. From this point on, every step you take will be intentional… or fatal."
Elias almost rolled his eyes in exasperation
" must they be so melodramatic? for Magicians sake I'm not a kid anymore, and neither is this old man." he thought, but let nothing of his musings to be reflected on his face.
The examiner led him through a second door — one Elias hadn't noticed until it opened, blending so perfectly with the stone that even he wouldn't have found it by sight alone.
Behind it lay a narrow stair spiraling down into torchless darkness.
"You may use light," the examiner said casually as they descended.
"I don't need it," Elias answered before thinking.
The man did not turn, but something in his posture shifted — interest, approval, or simple curiosity, Elias could not tell.
"Then walk," the examiner said. "See what answers."
Elias let his breath settle. His vision adjusted in seconds, the shadows peeling open before him like curtains — a natural instinct, strengthened over years. Every step became clearer. Every outline sharper.
But the deeper they went, the heavier the dark became.
A test.
Veiled Eye always tested.
The stair opened into a wide cavern lit only by a single silver thread of light dripping from a crack in the ceiling — not enough to see by, not for normal eyes.
Elias saw everything.
The examiner watched him from the edge of the dark, unreadable.
"Most initiates stumble here," the man said. "Or conjure sparks. Or panic when they realize they're being observed from every direction."
Elias said nothing. But he felt them — soft presences in the far gloom, moving like breath across stone.
Not hostile. Not friendly.
Evaluating.
"You feel them," the examiner said quietly. "Good. The Shadow Path rarely welcomes those who cannot hear its footfalls."
He motioned toward a pair of doors carved into the opposite wall, each identical.
"You will choose one. Only one leads to us."
"And the other?" Elias asked.
"The other leads back to the Academy," the examiner said smoothly. "You will not be allowed to return here again."
Elias listened.
The cavern breathed softly.
Left… cold air. No movement. Too still.
Right… subtle pressure. Not a draft — a presence. Shadows that leaned closer—not threatening, but expectant.
He walked right without hesitation.
The door slid open.
The examiner followed, satisfied.
They entered a dim hall lined with masked figures. Each mask different. Each expression unreadable.
Elias resisted the urge to tense.
These were operatives — some active, some retired, some perhaps here only as illusions or projections. All were dangerous in ways the Academy did not even teach.
One stepped forward, wearing a mask of polished obsidian.
"You rely on shadow for vision," the figure said. A voice without gender. "Show us."
Elias blinked.
The presence leaned closer.
"We mean: let us see how you see."
Elias hesitated — only for the length of a heartbeat. Revealing a technique was revealing weakness. But this was the entrance trial. He had no choice.
He let his focus shift — not outward, but inward, to where the instinct lived. Shadow answered, trickling around him like dark fog stirred by unseen winds. His pupils widened unnaturally, drinking in everything. The room brightened in grayscale clarity. Every movement in the dark slowed, defined.
A few assessors nodded.
One whispered something Elias couldn't catch.
Another wrote quickly on a slate.
The examiner behind him murmured, "Functional. Adaptive. Old trait. Not taught."
And then:
"Now the drawback."
The lanterns flared bright.
White pain stabbed behind his eyes. Elias recoiled, teeth clenched, but did not cry out.
That earned a few more nods.
"Good," the obsidian mask said. "Weakness acknowledged. Strength measured."
The lights dimmed again.
"You may proceed to your final evaluation."
A long table waited in the next chamber. On it lay a map of Mirage, marked with colored sigils.
A handler in a slate-gray cloak — clearly a senior Shadow Path operative — stepped forward.
"You will receive an assignment," she said. "You will be given strict commands."
Elias expected that.
"You will also be given a situation engineered to force you to choose between obedience… and survival."
He froze.
The examiner from earlier stepped beside her.
"We want to see if you can think," he said softly. "Not if you can follow orders."
Elias swallowed once.
The handler smiled faintly. "You are told this now, so you cannot claim ignorance."
The map glowed faintly with runic light.
"Your task is simple," she said. "Retrieve a marked object from the Lower Vaults."
"If I follow the orders exactly," Elias said slowly, "I will fail."
"Yes."
"And if I disobey," he added, "I will be punished."
"Yes."
He waited.
The handler's smile sharpened.
"Let us see what you truly choose."
And then the chamber dissolved into black — an illusionary field, a simulation crafted by Magicians and shadow-mancers alike.
Elias stood alone in a shifting labyrinth, the trial beginning without warning.
The first illusion lunged from the dark, claws made of shimmering light.
Elias moved.
He could see the illusion even in this pitch dark, the shimmering claws would probably help others but only hindered his vision.
Trick of illusion was that they weren't able to hurt you if you knew that they are illusions, of course he shouldn't know such things and definitely shouldn't have the mental strength to counter their suggestion of how real they are. If he wishes he could just walk through them, but of course that would give them too much about him and he isn't interested of being some experimental beast for them to toy with. So he dodged, stepped, jumped and ran like the beast was actually there.