Tessia Eralith
The mountain of paperwork blurred before my eyes, the neat lines of ink dissolving into meaningless smudges. "I didn't take you for the person to slack off your work, Princess," Claire's voice cut through the fog of exhaustion, warm with amusement. A flush crept up my neck. Caught.
Sometimes, I truly wondered if Master Cynthia viewed the Student Council less as student leaders and more as her personal cadre of overworked scribes. My shoulders slumped, the weight of parchment and expectation pressing down like heavy stones.
Claire leaned against the doorframe, a picture of relaxed grace that felt alien in this tense atmosphere. And oh, how I had misjudged her. Once, I had seen only a rival for Corvis's attention, a potential threat to the fragile closeness of our family.
Now? She was a lifeline. An anchor thrown to me in the storm that erupted the moment my brother was branded a criminal. That initial sting of jealousy, that fear of losing him… it hadn't vanished. It had metastasized.
Transformed into a gnawing dread, a constant, icy presence in my gut whispering that things were unraveling faster than we could mend them, and Corvis was caught in the center of the tear.
"Paperwork seems to be increasing with each passing day," I groaned, the sound muffled as I rested my forehead on the cool wood of the desk, the scent of ink and old paper filling my nostrils.
"And don't even get me started on the preparations for the end of the semester. It feels like planning a siege, not a celebration." My whine echoed slightly in the high-ceilinged room, drawing another soft chuckle from Claire.
"Look at the bright side of things, Princess," she offered, pushing off the frame and stepping fully into the office. Her optimism felt like a thin, worn blanket offered in a blizzard—appreciated for the intent, but utterly inadequate against the chill. "Soon you won't have to look at another requisition form until the start of the next period. Freedom!"
The bright side? The words echoed hollowly. Where exactly was this mythical brightness? Everywhere I looked, shadows deepened.
Corvis, my brilliant, infuriating, fiercely protective brother, hunted like an animal, his name spat like poison.
The city itself, once vibrant and hopeful, now simmering with violence that grew bolder, uglier, with each passing incident. Duels in the school grounds escalating into brawls, whispers hardening into accusations flung between elves, dwarves, and humans.
The fragile peace Master Cynthia and others had built felt like cracked glass under mounting pressure. Nothing shone. Only the fading embers of what was, and the encroaching dark of… what was coming.
A small, fragile warmth flickered within the gloom. Grey. His quiet, sometimes creepy presence. Sylvie's adorable, grounding affection. The camaraderie of the other members of the Student Council, even the steadfast members of the Disciplinary Committee like Claire.
They were islands in this rising tide. Yet, the longing for true sanctuary was a physical ache. Home. Zestier. The sun-drenched spires of the palace, the scent of flower blooms in the courtyard, the comforting murmur of the river, the chirps of the birds.
A desperate fantasy bloomed in my mind's eye: Corvis, whole and safe, maybe even laughing. Grey, less burdened, perhaps even smiling that rare, genuine smile. Sylvie flitting between us all. All of us together, under the Elshire Forest canopy, the weight of kingdoms and wars lifted, if only for a moment.
One day… The thought was a prayer, fragile as spun sugar, offered against the crushing certainty that things weren't getting better. They were tightening like a noose. Corvis foresaw war, a tempest on the horizon. Grey, with his grim pragmatism born of horrors I couldn't fathom, seemed to think Corvis was being naively optimistic.
If Corvis's grim prediction was the hopeful scenario, what terrifying abyss did Grey feared we were hurtling towards?
"Yes," I murmured, the word tasting like ash. "I guess so."
Pushing back from the desk, the chair scraping harshly on the stone floor, I turned towards the window. The late afternoon light slanted across the Academy grounds, gilding the familiar buildings, but the beauty felt brittle, a thin veneer over underlying tension.
"What about the Disciplinary Committee?" I asked Claire, seeking distraction, needing movement. "Any updates?"
"Grey skipped another meeting today." Claire's voice held a note of concern that mirrored my own unease. "He's always been… intense. But lately? It's different. Sharper. And today… something definitely happened. I could feel it radiating off him even from across the courtyard."
She joined me by the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass beside mine. "He practically vibrated with suppressed… something. Anger? Dread? It was hard to tell, but it wasn't good."
My heart gave a worried thud. Grey. His control was usually ironclad, his emotions locked down deep. For him to be visibly unsettled… The constant pressure, the fear for Corvis, the escalating violence—it was taking its toll on all of us, but Grey carried burdens the rest of us couldn't fully comprehend, not even after he and Corvis told me about it.
His progress in opening up, in trusting… was this fragile growth being crushed under the weight of impending disaster? "Do you have any idea what might have happened?" The question felt futile even as I asked it. Grey's inner world was a fortified citadel.
Claire shook her head, her brow furrowed. "No. He was like a shadow moving through stone today. I didn't even get close enough for a proper greeting, let alone a conversation that might shed light. He just… vanished after speaking briefly with Master Cynthia earlier."
The oppressive atmosphere of the office demanded escape. "Come on," I said, turning decisively. "I can't stare at these forms any longer. My eyes are crossing."
Claire nodded readily, relief evident. We stepped out into the slightly cooler air of the corridor, the change a small mercy.
"Hey Claire, Princess Eralith! Good to see you too!" Curtis' voice greeted us as we rounded a corner. He fell into step beside us, his usual earnest energy a stark contrast to the subdued mood.
Seeing him always triggered a complex, uncomfortable swirl within me. Logically, I knew. I knew with absolute certainty that Curtis Glayder had nothing to do with the machinations targeting Corvis, nothing to do with the poisonous whispers painting my brother a traitor.
He'd been one of Corvis's fiercest defenders, risking his own standing. Yet… a stubborn, ugly ember of resentment glowed deep in a hidden corner of my heart. He bore the name Glayder. His family, his father, seemed inextricably linked to the forces arrayed against Corvis.
Seeing his face, so open and friendly, sometimes made that ember flare—a reflexive, irrational anger that shamed me even as I felt it. Was I a terrible person for this fracture in my gratitude? For this sliver of blame that clung to him despite his actions? I buried it deeper, forcing a polite smile that felt brittle on my lips.
"Curtis!" Claire returned his greeting with genuine warmth, effortlessly navigating the social currents. "Is Feyrith still campaigning for increased patrols around the Elven dormitories?"
Curtis sighed, running a hand through his hair, his cheerful demeanor dimming slightly under the weight of responsibility. "Relentlessly. And I understand his concern, Princess," he added, glancing at me with an earnestness that made my hidden guilt twinge.
"The tension is palpable. But the reality is, we're stretched too thin. We barely have enough members to cover the main campus thoroughfares effectively. And statistically, the vast majority of violent incidents still erupt in the central plaza or the dueling grounds. Tempers flare too easily there."
"The dueling grounds," I echoed, a fresh wave of frustration rising. "Master Cynthia should ban them outright. 'Supposedly safe' is a fantasy. Especially these last months… it's just sanctioned aggression waiting to boil over."
I remembered the reports—broken bones, concussions, the simmering hatred that lingered long after the formal match ended.
"I agree," Curtis said quickly, his expression serious. "But you know how it is. Tradition. Honor. The noble houses of Sapin practically breathe dueling culture. Suggesting a ban would be like kicking a hornet's nest, politically." He gestured helplessly.
"We're trying to enforce stricter rules, but…"
His words were cut off not by argument, but by the world itself tearing apart.
BOOOOOOM!
The sound wasn't just loud; it was a physical assault. The very stones of the corridor seemed to convulse beneath our feet. Windows rattled violently in their frames, the panes shivering like terrified creatures. A wave of pressure slammed into us, thick and suffocating, carrying the acrid, unmistakable scent of shattered stone, seared earth, and… something else. Something volatile and terrifying.
Claire gasped, staggering back a step, her hand flying to her mouth. "W-what was that?!" Her voice was shrill with shock, eyes wide with dawning horror.
My body reacted before my mind fully processed. Training, instinct, and a chilling, soul-deep recognition kicked in. The direction. The sheer, overwhelming force of it. My blood turned to ice water in my veins.
"The Tri-Union Commemorative Building!" The words ripped from my throat, raw and urgent, echoing the sudden, frantic pounding of my heart.
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the initial shock, replaced by a surge of adrenaline so potent it made my vision tunnel. Without conscious thought, my legs were already moving, propelling me forward, away from the echoing corridor, towards the source of that monstrous sound.
Claire's cry of my name and Curtis's shout of alarm faded behind me, swallowed by the ringing in my ears and the primal drumbeat of terror driving me forward.
The fragile calm of paperwork and quiet worries shattered utterly, replaced by the roaring, smoke-choked reality of catastrophe.
What was happening... if they attacked now then what happened to Master Cynthia?
———
The stench hit the three of us first—coppery blood, scorched ozone, and something else, something deeply wrong: a cloying, animal musk laced with the stench of rotten flesh.
Then the sounds: screams, raw and terrified, mingled with bestial screeches that scraped against the bones. We burst onto the Academy's main concourse, and the world dissolved into nightmare.
"M-mana beasts?" Claire choked out beside me, her voice thin with disbelief. "How are they here?"
The question hung uselessly in the smoke-choked air. Above, the twilight sky was a writhing tapestry of horror. Flocks of winged abominations—creatures that looked like grotesque taxidermy gone wrong, feathers fused with chitin, beaks like rusted pincers —dive-bombed the panicked students below.
Elves, humans, dwarves—it made no difference to the tearing claws and snapping jaws. A flash of blue and white student robes was snatched mid-air, a scream abruptly silenced. Below, a hulking, multi-limbed monstrosity with obsidian scales barreled through a cluster of first-years near the gardens, scattering them like broken dolls. The carefully tended flowerbeds were churned mud, spattered crimson.
Panic threatened to freeze my limbs, cold and paralyzing. But the mantle of Student President, the ingrained responsibility Corvis always teased me about, slammed down like armor. Focus, Tessia!
"Claire!" My voice cut through the din, sharper than I felt. "Alert the Disciplinary Committee! Rally everyone you can find! Go!" Her eyes, wide with terror, met mine for a split second.
Then, the soldier beneath the student surfaced. She nodded, a curt, fierce gesture, and vanished into the chaos, moving with desperate speed towards the DC headquarters.
Grey! The silent plea screamed in my mind. Where are you? Another explosion roared, not from the Academy this time, but from the city below. A deep, sickening whump that vibrated through the floating island itself. Flames blossomed against the darkening horizon, multiple points of angry orange light blooming like malignant flowers.
"The city?" Curtis gasped, stumbling beside me, his face ashen. "Is all of Xyrus under attack?! How is this possible?" His voice cracked with the sheer, impossible scale of it. Xyrus, the floating bastion, accessible only by portals… it was supposed to be impregnable. Safe.
The answer was a cold knife twisting in my gut. Agrona. The name wasn't just a threat whispered by Grey and Corvis; it was the architect of this hellscape. I forced the paralyzing dread down. You are the Student President, Tessia Eralith. Act!
"Curtis! Alert Master Cynthia and—"
The words died in my throat. A low, ominous hum filled the air, vibrating the very marrow of my bones. We both looked up, instinctively. High above the carnage, the sky itself began to bleed. Hexagons of shimmering, malevolent crimson energy flickered into existence, weaving together with terrifying speed, forming an immense, suffocating dome. It sealed us in. Trapped us with the monsters. A cage of blood-red light thrown over a slaughterhouse. The air grew thick, heavy, tasting of ozone and despair.
A high-pitched shriek, closer this time, ripped our attention downwards. An elven girl, maybe a year older than me, was being dragged by her hair across the cobblestones. Not by a beast.
By Professor Brant, the usually mild-mannered history lecturer. Curtis reacted instantly, a surge of water mana coalescing into a whip that cracked towards Brant's arm.
"Get off her!"
I moved to help, the wand-sword already materializing from my storage ring, its familiar weight a small anchor. Then, a shadow fell over me. A stench of rotting fish and damp feathers. I spun. Descending like a grotesque, feathered meteor was a mana beast that defied the known biology of mana beasts—part vulture, part armored crustacean, its beak a serrated nightmare of chitinous plates. Instinct took over.
I slashed my free hand through the air, chanting, "Wind Blade!" A blade of compressed wind howled forth.
It struck the beast's chest… and glanced off. Feathers parted, but the underlying hide, tough as boiled leather and shimmering with an unnatural, oily sheen, barely registered the impact. My eyes widened. Too tough! These aren't normal beasts!
The creature shrieked, a sound like tearing metal, and lunged, its massive beak snapping shut where my head had been a moment before. I twisted, bringing my wand-sword up in a desperate parry. The impact jarred my arm to the shoulder, the clang of metal on chitin echoing sharply.
Focus! Grey's training, the relentless drills, the beast will integration—it surged through the panic. Not just wind. Plants. I poured mana downwards, not just summoning, but commanding. The cobblestones beneath the beast buckled. A thick, spear-like root, sharpened to a wicked point by my will, erupted upwards with terrifying speed.
It punched through the softer underbelly with a sickening crunch-thud, lifting the shrieking beast off its claws before impaling it clean through. Dark, viscous ichor rained down, steaming on the cold stone.
"Curtis! Are you—?" I gasped, turning towards him, relief warring with exhaustion.
The sight stole my breath. Curtis wasn't standing. He was slumped against the scorched wall of the Transmutation building, fifteen feet away. His uniform was charred and smoking. Angry red burns laced his arms and face, one side of his jaw already swelling grotesquely. His breathing was ragged, pained. He hadn't been hit by the beast. He'd been blasted aside.
By what?
A low, guttural chuckle slithered through the smoke, dripping with malice and something deeply, profoundly wrong. "Hello, snobby Princess."
The figure that stepped from the swirling haze wasn't Lucas Wykes. Not anymore. It wore his face, his clothes, but it was a grotesque parody. His eyes blazed with pure, unadulterated hatred, the whites completely swallowed by bloodshot crimson. Veins, thick and black as tar, pulsed violently across his temples, neck, and the bare skin of his forearms, bulging against flesh stretched taut with unnatural tension. Every muscle stood out in stark, knotted relief, humming with dangerous power. He radiated heat, waves of it distorting the air around him.
But it was his mana signature that made my stomach clench with visceral revulsion. It washed over me—thick, cloying, suffocating. Darker and heavier than Grey's ever was. Grey's power felt different, shadowed, sometimes unsettlingly intense, but fundamentally… human. Anchored.
This? This was pure corruption. A festering, oily miasma that reeked of decay and boundless, sadistic hunger. It felt sick. Morally, spiritually sick. It wasn't just power; it was pollution.
He grinned, a rictus that showed too many teeth. "I can finally have my own revenge on that Grey," he spat the name like poison. "So be a good little elf…" He took a step closer, the cobblestones cracking faintly under his boot. The heat radiating from him intensified, making the sweat on my skin evaporate instantly. "...and no harm will be done to you." The promise was obscene, laced with the unspoken threat of unspeakable things.
I swallowed hard, the taste of ash and fear thick in my mouth. My knuckles were white on the hilt of my wand-sword. The blade trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from the sheer, overwhelming wrongness radiating from the thing that had been Lucas Wykes.
This wasn't a duel. This wasn't even a fight. This was an encounter with something monstrous wearing the skin of a boy I despised, radiating a malevolence that made the rampaging mana beasts seem almost natural. Or maybe this has always been him?
"Oh?" His head tilted, a mockery of curiosity. The crimson eyes gleamed with perverse amusement. "Are you going to fight, little elf?" His voice dropped to a guttural rasp, vibrating with unnatural power. "You dare to stand before the Great Lucas Wykes?"
He raised a hand, not in a spellcasting gesture, but almost lazily, palm facing me. The air above it shimmered violently, gathering heat. "I shall prepare you," he purred, the sound like gravel grinding on bone, "for when I kill you slowly… in front of your commoner boyfriend."
The final word dripped with venomous, possessive glee, promising not just death, but desecration. The moral sickness of his intent, the violation inherent in his words and the corrupted power he wielded, hung thick and choking in the air, worse than the smoke, worse than the blood.