Three days had passed since Chris Malloran joined their class, and already, Sanctum Magna buzzed with whispers.
To his credit—or perhaps annoyance—Chris handled the attention with unshakable calm. He wasn't loud. He didn't boast. He didn't even seem especially interested in proving himself. Yet in every spar, every magical drill, every discussion in World Magic History, he performed with such quiet precision that even the most sceptical students began to take notice.
Kyle noticed too. He hated it.
Even worse, the professors loved Chris. Professor Owl had taken to pairing them together in Combat Arts, a decision Kyle suspected wasn't random.
The latest sparring match left Kyle panting, his shoulder stinging from a concussive burst Chris had landed with casual ease.
"You overextended," Chris said afterward, offering a hand.
Kyle slapped it away.
"I slipped."
Tch. It's bad enough I can't control my mana very well—now I'm sparring with someone who's done it his whole life? For what? Kyle thought, clearly displeased with any progress—if any.
Chris didn't argue. He just gave that infuriating smile—that patient, knowing smile—and walked off.
Kyle's fists clenched. That damned smile has been pissing me off.
During the lunch break, Kyle sat under one of the shaded stone pavilions lining the main courtyard, stabbing aggressively at his food while Orin and Mirai chatted nearby.
"So," Orin said, grinning. "You and Prince Charming have been getting close."
"Closer to shoving a fireball down his throat," Kyle muttered.
"I thought you couldn't do that. You know, since you can't properly use your mana," Orin said in mock confusion.
Mirai raised an eyebrow. "You really don't like him, huh?"
"It's not about like. It's about what he represents. The bastard is a Malloran. I couldn't care less if he was an angel sent by those deities called gods. He wears their name, he stands by it—and that's enough for me."
Mirai frowned slightly but said nothing.
A group of upperclassmen walked by, snickering among themselves. One of them, a red-haired boy with a prefect badge, glanced over and said just loud enough for others to hear, "You think they'll let both Mallorans walk around without supervision?"
Orin blinked. "Wait. Both?" he thought, watching the passing third-years.
"Yeah," another chimed in. "There's a rumour going around that someone else from the Malloran family's already here. Kept quiet. Real hush-hush. No one knows who, though."
Kyle stiffened. "I shouldn't be surprised. Damn nobles—I can't get away from them even when I try," he mumbled, just loud enough for the two next to him to hear.
"Maybe it's a cousin," Orin said. "Or a sibling?"
Kyle turned to Mirai, wanting to ask about the rumours, but she was focused on her slate, pretending not to have heard.
Something about that bothered him.
That night, Kyle didn't sleep well.
The nightmare came slowly, like smoke seeping under a locked door.
At first, he was standing in the middle of his old village, the sky stained orange and black. Fire raged in every direction, devouring homes and farmland alike. The ground trembled with distant screams.
He turned, running down a familiar path. He could see it—Roland's smithy, engulfed in flames.
"Roland!" Kyle shouted, voice hoarse.
No answer.
He sprinted toward it, heat blistering his skin, but as he reached the door, it collapsed inward, swallowed by flame.
He turned again, desperate. A figure stood in the village square—Esmeralda, robes scorched, eyes wide with horror. She reached toward him.
"Kyle—!"
A burning beam dropped from above. She vanished.
He screamed her name, running forward, but everything was ash, choking him, pulling him down into the earth like quicksand.
Then—
Kyle gasped, bolting upright in bed, drenched in sweat. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then he swung his legs off the bed and sat with his head in his hands.
It wasn't the first nightmare. But this one… it felt too close.
Later that day, during their Magic History class, Professor Gellar—a woman with a voice like smooth gravel—paused mid-lecture to answer a student's question.
"Caerwyn Academy?" she repeated. "It's one of the Three Pillars—top institutions for magical study across the Central Continent."
She tapped her wand against the board. A glowing map of the realm appeared, with three glowing stars marking distinct regions.
"Sanctum Magna, here in the Southern territories, is the most traditional. Structured. Hierarchical. Built on merit and legacy. Caerwyn, by contrast, lies deep in the North and emphasizes excellence through competition and ranking. Constant challenges, duels, advancement only by besting your peers. It breeds powerful mages… and rivals."
The word lingered in the air.
Kyle's eyes flicked toward Chris, seated two rows over, calmly taking notes.
So that was where he came from. A place built on battle, ambition, and survival. It explained a lot.
But it didn't explain why someone would leave.
"And the third?" Kyle asked.
"The third Pillar... is probably the most rooted in our historic past. They don't emphasize using magic as it is, but rather as an improvement to technologies that have long ceased to exist. Morning Star Military—that's their name. They're based in the most central part of the Central Continent," Professor Gellar answered.
"Professor, if I may ask," Chris said, politeness rolling off his tongue like sugar, "why are all three in the Central Continent?"
"This touches on a topic we'll explore later in the curriculum—something you won't find in the archives yet. But the reason is balance. Most of you may know of the three ruling powers."
"The Magic Tower, the Western Federation, and the Central Coalition," Kyle added.
"Exactly. To keep the peace and avoid one side accusing another of training an unnecessary number of mages for unethical purposes, all sides agreed to establish the academies on neutral soil."
But the fact the academies are in separate regions means the powers still have majority control of their favoured institution. So it's all a façade. Kyle pieced the information together as if it were common sense.
The bell rang shortly after, and the class dissolved into its usual chatter.
"Those two are super smart. I could barely keep up with the content and they're adding extra info."
"I'm almost certain they know each other from somewhere."
"Why are the two eye candies so hostile? I don't wanna pick a side."
"Is all you talk about boys?"
The students had their own opinions on Kyle and Chris.
That evening, Kyle wandered the inner halls of Sanctum Magna, trying to shake the sense of unease that clung to him like fog.
He found himself in the east wing—one of the older sections of the academy, rarely used by first-years. A perfect place for a stroll, given it wasn't restricted.
The halls were dim, the sconces flickering with pale blue flames. The walls were carved with faded runes that pulsed faintly, as though remembering things they shouldn't.
As he passed a sealed archway, he paused. A cold draft crept from the cracks around the door. There was a sound—like whispering—but when Kyle leaned in, it stopped.
He took a step back.
Not tonight.
He turned and walked away, but the unease didn't leave him. Something felt off in the bones of this place. Sanctum Magna was old. Ancient, even. And age brought secrets.
And something—somewhere in its forgotten halls—was awake.
Watching.
Waiting.