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Chapter 11 – Eyes That Shouldn't Be
Leonhart didn't breathe.
The orb of ether-light quivered above his shoulder as the four glowing eyes—red and slimy—hovered just above the arch of the iron cell gate. They watched him. Remembered him.
Then, smooth as smoke, the eyes vanished, pooling back into shadow just as Clara closed the gate behind them.
Leonhart extinguished his light.
"Run," he whispered.
They sprinted up the stairs, boots clattering against stone, hearts pounding in time with their steps. No roar came behind. No chase. Just the silence of something ancient stirring in its sleep.
They burst into the courtyard—and froze.
Instructor Vaern stood between them and the open gate, coat flared in the wind, face unreadable. A single hand pressed against the stone arch; with a low, echoing crack, runes flashed in blue and gold. The gate slid shut, sealing with a hiss no student should hear.
He spun, grey-black plate glinting. No anger. No relief. Only fierce intent.
"You two," he said flatly. "Behind me. Now."
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They followed him back across the yard into the empty blade-practice ring. Vaern locked the gate silently behind them, the sound swallowed by the stone walls.
He faced them, cloak half drawn.
"What you did was reckless," he said. "That gate was sealed for a reason. Not by chance. Not by neglect."
Clara stepped forward. "We saw… eyes. Watching us."
He fixed on Leonhart. "What did you see?"
He took a shaky breath. "Four glowing red eyes. Regrowing. Not alive. Not dead."
Vaern's jaw tightened like steel cables.
"That's a Gloamshade," he said. The word cut the air.
Leonhart and Clara shared a frightened glance.
"What is it?" Leonhart asked.
Vaern's gaze sharpened.
"Old Verge creature. Not alive. Not dead. Cradled by stray ether, spun and torn in regret and hunger. Its kind shouldn't exist here."
He turned away, silent for a heartbeat.
"Enough. Draw."
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He led them into the adjacent blade ring. Wooden dummy-sentinels swung in time, barely moving.
Vaern pointed at Clara. "Fix your footwork."
Then at Leonhart. "Use your hips. Your arm is locked."
He unsheathed a rune-etched training blade.
In an instant, he advanced.
Leonhart and Clara raised their swords and attacked. Vaern responded like rain after drought—soft, inevitable, unstoppable.
Leonhart's rib stung from the first light touch. Clara staggered when her blade was almost knocked aside.
Vaern slipped between them, his sword graze glancing Leonhart's neck by inches. Breath whooshed by his ear.
Vaern didn't stop.
He pivoted, withdrew his blade, then rested it lightly on the stone.
"That lasted longer than I expected," he said quietly. "But you're still predictable."
He stepped away and sheathed the blade.
"We resume at dawn. Dependency on raw strength will kill you before you learn to adapt."
Leonhart felt his frustration mix with something else—purpose. The training ground echoed with the promise of something greater.
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They didn't speak as they walked back to Fayre Tower. Night had deepened. Lanterns lined the paths, gentle and watchful.
Leonhart opened the door to Room 3B.
Something on his bed made him pause.
A scrap of parchment lay there. No seal. No handwriting he recognized—slanted, cramped.
Clara moved closer.
"What is it?" she asked.
He picked it up, reading the seven words:
"You looked into what was buried."
His hand curled. The message felt like a blade pressed to memory.
He crept to the window, opened it silently.
Clara watched from behind. Moonlight caught movement atop the opposite tower.
Two feet. A black cloak. A face that didn't appear…but was there for one flash.
Gone before he could shout.
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Leonhart closed the window gently.
He tucked the note into his coat pocket.
The night swallowed their breath.
And above the dorm towers, something watched.
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End of Chapter 11 – Eyes That Shouldn't Be
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