Chapter 1: The Boy Who Didn't Belong
The carriage hissed to a halt, its wheels grinding gently against the mossy cobblestone. Steam coiled around the legs of the waiting students, giving the morning air a ghostly chill. Ceil stepped down slowly, worn boots scuffing the cracked stone. His satchel was small and weather-beaten, held together with old stitching and a piece of knotted twine.
No one greeted him. No siblings to wave goodbye. No parent's hand on his shoulder.
Just a quiet, uncertain breeze that whispered across the arching gates of Varlume Academy.
The others around him looked like they belonged—flowing robes, glimmering badges on their sleeves, floating luggage trailing behind them, enchanted and obedient. Some were even laughing already, surrounded by their childhood friends or younger siblings attending for the first time.
Ceil kept his hood low and eyes forward.
He didn't want to know if anyone was pointing.
---
Whispers
As he passed the bronze pillars marking the academy's edge, he heard it again.
"Is that him?"
"From Ashblight?"
"The cursed one. I heard he survived the whole fire without a scratch."
"Bet his magic's unstable… or twisted."
They weren't even whispering that quietly.
Ceil didn't flinch. Not on the outside.
But something inside him sank deeper.
It always did.
---
The Entrance Ceremony
Hundreds of new students gathered in the Moonlight Courtyard, a marble arena framed by glowing lanterns and faintly floating glyphs. Above them, the floating spires of the main tower rotated gently in the sky — kept aloft by ancient magic.
A hush fell as the principal stepped up to the elevated podium.
Asther Fael, the strongest magic wielder in the known region — according to the academy guides. His dark robes shimmered faintly with starlight patterns, and his silver hair was tied back with a plain black ribbon.
He spoke without raising his voice, yet everyone heard.
"You enter this school not to be told who you are, but to face who you might become. Some of you carry legacies. Others come with nothing but a name. It does not matter. Magic, like fire, shows no loyalty until it is mastered. And those who think they have mastered it… are the first to burn."
There was a pause. The courtyard was still.
Then polite, slightly nervous clapping followed.
Ceil didn't clap. Not out of rebellion — just because he wasn't sure how long he'd be allowed to stay.
---
The Sorting Test
Afterward, all first-years were led to the Hall of Convergence, a vast round chamber with no visible roof — only a floating sphere of glass that showed the stars, even in daylight. In the center of the room floated the Orb of Echoes, a crystal capable of sensing and displaying a student's magical affinity.
Ceil stood at the back of the line, hands tucked into his sleeves. He could barely hear the murmured instructions. But he understood the routine.
Step forward. Touch the orb. Be sorted by elemental or spiritual affinity.
Students went one by one.
"Sera Halden!" — the orb blazed silver. Spirac Division. People clapped.
"Kaien Foril!" — the wind burst outwards, knocking over a bench. Applause and laughter followed. Aerune Division.
Then:
"Ceil Elra."
He walked slowly. Eyes burned holes in his back as he approached the orb.
Whispers rose again like smoke.
He touched the crystal.
Nothing.
It didn't flicker. Didn't pulse. Didn't even hum.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
"Is it broken?" someone muttered.
The instructor cleared his throat. "Affinity… undetermined."
Mild silence. Then a rustle of parchment.
"You will be placed under general training probation. If no affinity manifests within the first season… enrollment will be reconsidered."
No clapping. No reaction. Just one student stepping down, face unreadable, eyes cast toward the floor.
---
Room C-3
The dorms were assigned quickly. Students floated off with luggage to cozy two-person rooms overlooking courtyards, gardens, or tower bridges.
Ceil was assigned to Room C-3, second floor of the East Wing.
He found it. Knocked once. Opened the door.
A boy was already there — organizing a shelf of robes by thread-count and fabric quality. He turned as Ceil entered.
Tall. Blonde. Neatly dressed. Clearly noble-born.
"...You?"
Ceil blinked.
"You're Ceil Elra. The cursed one. From Ashblight."
Ceil didn't reply.
The boy stared at him like he'd stepped in mud.
"There must be a mistake. I'm not rooming with someone like you. What if you start convulsing in your sleep or set the mattress on fire?"
"I won't," Ceil said quietly.
"Not my problem. I'm leaving."
And just like that, he left.
---
Room D-7: The Quiet One
Later that evening, the Dormmaster — a tired old mage with burn marks on his robe — called Ceil aside.
"Got one more student who didn't get paired. Quiet boy. Doesn't talk. Room D-7. Don't cause problems."
Room D-7 was smaller. Windowless. And cold.
Inside, a boy sat on the far bed, drawing intently on a blank scroll with dark ink. He had pale silver hair, a tired expression, and didn't look up when Ceil entered.
He just kept drawing.
Ceil didn't say anything. He didn't unpack either — he only had one spare tunic and a water flask. He placed them on the bedside table, sat down, and stared at the ceiling.
Eventually, the boy slid something across the floor.
A sketch.
Of a gate.
Old, rusted, overgrown. Half-hidden behind a crumbling statue.
Ceil didn't know why, but it unsettled him.
He folded the paper and placed it under his pillow without a word.
---
The Gate
That night, Ceil couldn't sleep.
The sketch burned behind his eyes.
He left the room silently and wandered the edges of the academy—passing stone halls, spiraling archways, moss-covered courtyards. Until something… pulled him.
Through the sculpture garden, down an overgrown path—
There it was.
The gate.
Exactly as drawn.
Half-concealed behind a forgotten statue and curling vines.
He stepped closer. The iron bars shimmered faintly in the moonlight.
A soft wind rustled the leaves.
And then—
A voice. Barely audible. Not in his ears, but in his mind.
"You've arrived.
Let the story begin."
Chapter 2: "Those Who Struggle, Those Who Break"
Part 1: Cold Mornings and Quiet Walls
The windowpane was fogged, the glass slick with dew. Outside, the sky hovered between rain and sunlight — pale, uncertain. Morning had come to Varlume Academy, but not with fanfare. Only a dull, sullen quiet hung in the air.
Ceil sat up slowly on his bed, the coarse blanket falling from his shoulders. His eyes were heavy. His neck ached from the unfamiliar mattress, his arms from clenching the thin pillow all night. The stone floor beneath his feet was cold.
He breathed in through his nose and exhaled. The air inside the dorm room was still — not peaceful, not warm — just still, like a room no one wanted to disturb.
His roommate was awake.
Across the narrow space, Vey sat at his desk, hunched over a sketchpad. The soft sound of charcoal scraping against paper filled the silence. He hadn't moved much since Ceil first laid eyes on him yesterday.
He hadn't said a word then, either.
Vey's white hair fell in uneven strands across his eyes, hiding most of his face. A single candle lit his side of the room, casting a dull flicker across the graphite lines forming on the page.
Curious — cautiously so — Ceil stood and stepped closer.
Vey didn't look up.
The drawing was... eerie.
It wasn't a landscape or a figure. It was a gate. Tall. Iron-wrought. Twisting with vines of old symbols Ceil didn't recognize. Fog curled around its base, and in the haze stood two small shapes. One of them looked like…
Him.
Same messy black hair. Same narrow shoulders. Same slouched posture.
His stomach tightened. He didn't know why.
Vey's hand paused for the briefest second. Then, as if nothing happened, continued drawing.
Ceil backed away.
He didn't speak. Neither did Vey.
But something had passed between them. Something unsaid — and heavy.
---
The Dining Hall – Unwanted
The dining hall was massive. Vaulted ceilings rose like cathedral spires, and every column shimmered faintly with runes carved into the stone. Chandeliers floated overhead, flickering with captured daylight.
It should have felt magical.
It didn't.
Ceil stood in the doorway beside Vey, both holding wooden trays like shields. The noise hit them immediately — dozens of voices tangled in laughter, gossip, and boasts. Students moved in clusters. Uniforms freshly pressed. Coats buttoned. Sigils stitched proudly on their sleeves.
No one looked at them. No one waved them over.
He walked behind Vey to a quiet corner, where a table sat mostly empty. Some students cast glances — not curious ones. Just enough to recognize him, then turn away.
Ceil set his tray down, trying to steady his hands. There was bread, fruit, and something hot that smelled faintly of honey and spice.
Across the hall, at a long central table, sat a girl with silver braids woven with tiny moonstones. Her uniform looked newer. Straighter. She laughed at something a boy beside her — with sharp eyes and an old noble crest — had said. They sat surrounded by people. Easy conversation. Shared glances. Belonging.
Ceil had no idea who they were.
But he already knew they didn't belong to his world.
"That's the Ashblight kid," someone whispered behind him.
"You mean the cursed one?"
"Figures he's roomed with the mute. Who else would take him?"
Ceil's fingers curled around his spoon until it bent.
Vey didn't look up. He was peeling an apple slowly with a silver knife he hadn't had yesterday. Slice by slice, delicate and clean. His eyes were calm, unreadable.
Ceil looked down at his food.
He wasn't hungry anymore.
---
The Hall of Intent – First Fractures
Their first real class was held in the Hall of Intent — a broad, round arena carved from obsidian stone, glowing faintly with etched sigils along the walls. Floating mirrors hovered overhead, reflecting every movement on the floor below.
Students lined up along the walls, their uniforms crisp. Some stood with practiced poise, hands behind their backs, shoulders relaxed. These were the noble-born. The trained. The expected.
Ceil stood near the back with Vey. He hadn't spoken since breakfast. His fingers still hurt from clenching the spoon.
Professor Alid entered like a stormcloud — sharp eyes, gray-streaked hair pulled into a tail, voice as dry as it was severe.
"This is where you start to matter. Or start to fall behind. We'll see which is which."
He raised a small, glowing sphere into the air. It hovered above them, pulsing faintly.
"This is an affinity orb. Your task is to form your core around it — the base of all spellcasting. If you cannot, you have no place here."
One by one, names were called.
Sera Ilvane stepped forward, her hand outstretched. A ripple of silver light coiled into a neat sphere around the orb. It shimmered like a moon tide. Controlled. Perfect.
Kaien Velsharr followed. His magic was sharper — a twisting edge of wind that snapped around the orb like a blade unsheathed.
Murmurs followed both.
Then it was Ceil's turn.
His stomach twisted.
He stepped forward, heart thudding. The orb hovered still, waiting.
He tried to steady his breathing, tried to remember the meditation drills. He reached deep — toward something that felt like warmth, or weight, or spark.
Nothing.
He tried again. Pushed harder. Felt sweat bead at his temple.
Nothing.
Whispers filled the air. One laugh. Then another.
Professor Alid didn't even pretend to hide his disappointment.
"No control. No output. No signature."
Ceil stepped back, humiliated. Not surprised. But still, it hurt.
He stood near the edge, eyes burning, refusing to blink.
Vey's name was called next. He didn't move.
Alid stared at him for a long second.
"Mute and defiant. A useful combination."
Vey didn't even lift his head.
But his sketchbook moved — just slightly — as his fingers traced something Ceil couldn't see.
Beneath the Silence, Something Moves
The evening bell rang low — five solemn chimes echoing across the hills of Varlume Academy.
Classes were over. Most students returned to their dorms, shedding their polished composure in exchange for the easy arrogance of youth. Laughter floated from the courtyards. Footsteps scuffed along stone paths. Inside the common halls, card games and gossip lit the fire-warmed air.
But Ceil didn't follow them.
He walked alone down the back gardens, hands in his coat pockets, head low.
The silence here was different. No rumors. No stares. Just the whisper of wind through the climbing ivy and the faint scent of moss and pine.
He wasn't sure why he'd come here again.
Perhaps because it was the only place that didn't seem to care whether he belonged.
---
The Gate
Past the last hedge, past a small fountain half-choked with weeds, the forbidden gate stood — tall, iron-wrought, twisted with time.
It wasn't chained. It wasn't even sealed. Just... ignored.
A rusted plaque near its base read in peeling runes:
"Archive C — Closed Indefinitely by Order of the Magisterium."
Ceil stared at it.
He didn't step closer. He just stood there, breathing softly.
Something felt wrong here.
But not dangerous. Not in the way demons or curses were described. It was the kind of wrong that made your stomach tighten without knowing why — like standing in a house where someone once died, but no one talks about it.
Why would a school seal a library gate?
He didn't know. But the question wouldn't leave.
He looked down.
There was something carved into the stone near his boot. A single symbol. Circular, almost like an eye. But blurred. Like it had been scratched out… and then redrawn.
His chest tightened.
Suddenly, he felt… watched.
The gate hadn't moved. The wind hadn't changed.
But in the back of his mind, a whisper stirred — not in sound, but in sensation. Like a memory he hadn't lived.
"What will you trade to matter?"
Ceil blinked.
He turned. No one was there.
---
Return to the Room
By the time he returned to the dorm room, night had fully fallen.
The candle at Vey's desk was still lit. The room smelled faintly of ink and dust.
Vey sat exactly as before — sketching. But something about his posture was different. Tighter. Shoulders pulled in, breathing slower.
Ceil glanced at the sketchbook.
It wasn't the gate this time.
It was a monster. Thin and spined like a broken cage, its eyes hollow, teeth like cracked glass. Behind it stood rows of small silhouettes — students? — and in front of it, alone, was one boy.
The boy had no face. But Ceil knew.
"That's... me," he said before he realized.
Vey didn't respond.
But his hand paused for just a second.
Then, without looking up, Vey tore the page out and held it toward him.
Ceil hesitated. Then stepped forward and took it.
The paper was warm from Vey's hands.
"Why are you drawing this?" Ceil asked softly.
Silence.
Vey tapped twice on the desk, then pointed to a word scratched on the side with a small nail:
"Truth."
Ceil frowned.
"Truth? It hasn't happened."
Vey finally looked up.
His eyes were dark gray, but strangely… soft. Not cold. Not hostile.
He didn't smile.
He just mouthed a word Ceil didn't quite catch.
But he understood the meaning:
"Not yet."---The First Crack
That night, Ceil lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The image of the faceless boy and the monster replayed in his mind.
What was Vey? A silent artist with a haunted gaze. Always sketching things no one told him. Things that hadn't happened. Not yet.
And what was that whisper by the gate? A hallucination? Stress?
Or something real?
He closed his eyes.
For a long time, there was only silence.
Then — just as sleep threatened to take him — he heard it again.
Faint. Inside his head. Not words, not voice. Just pressure. Like a presence pressing gently against the thin glass of his thoughts.
"One spark. One fracture. The story begins…"
Ceil sat up in bed, gasping.
But the room was still.
And Vey, across the room, was already awake.
Watching him.
The Ones You're Forced to Work With
The next morning began like the last — cold, clouded, and heavy with expectations.
Ceil sat near the back of the classroom, trying not to draw attention. Most students were whispering excitedly about yesterday's Affinity Test, comparing elemental flares, or mocking those who barely summoned sparks.
No one mentioned him. But he could still feel it — like static in the air.
Vey sat beside him, flipping slowly through a small leather notebook, seemingly uninterested in anything around them.
Then the instructor — a lanky mage with ink-stained gloves and a limp — clapped his hands once. The murmuring died instantly.
"Today," he said, voice dry but sharp, "we begin practical magic exercises in groups. You will be assigned randomly. No swaps. No complaints."
Groans echoed around the room.
"Your goal: extract magical essence from raw fragments and stabilize them. We'll be observing your teamwork… or lack thereof."
He raised a long scroll and began calling names.
Ceil felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
Please don't say mine. Please—
"Vey and Ceil… with Sera and Kaien."
His heart sank.
The two most talented students in the class — and the two least likely to want him around.
---
Group 8
They gathered near the back table. A small obsidian shard hovered above a runic stand, pulsing with raw, unstable magic.
Kaien barely glanced at Ceil before turning to Sera.
"This is going to be a nightmare."
Sera didn't respond immediately. She was watching Vey — curious, but cautious. Her fingers traced the air, reading the shard's motion like a musician reading sheet music.
Ceil cleared his throat. No one looked at him.
"Should I—" "Don't touch it," Kaien snapped.
Sera held up a hand, not rudely, but firmly.
"Let's just do what we're good at. Vey… you can stabilize. I'll siphon. Kaien, control the flow."
Ceil waited. No one gave him a task.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, he stepped back.
I'll just not get in the way.---First Crack
They began the extraction.
Sera moved her hands in graceful arcs, pulling threads of light from the shard. Kaien flared his mana to control the flow, guiding it into a crystal tube. Vey stayed absolutely still, one hand extended over the stabilizer glyph, eyes focused with eerie calm.
And Ceil… watched.
He hated this part — being invisible. Being tolerated but not trusted.
Then, something went wrong.
The shard pulsed violently — a deep, humming throb that cracked the runes beneath it.
Kaien shouted, "Too fast!"
Sera tried to slow the siphon. But the magic fought back — like a living thing resisting being tamed.
The energy lashed out — and Ceil, without thinking, stepped forward.
He didn't know magic. He didn't have the strength.
But he raised his hand anyway — instinctive, stupid.
The backlash struck him squarely in the chest, flinging him into the wall.
Pain exploded through his ribs. His vision went white for a second.
Then… silence.
When he opened his eyes, the shard was calm. The energy gone.
Kaien swore under his breath.
Sera knelt beside Ceil, checking him.
"That was reckless," she muttered.
Ceil coughed.
"Didn't mean to… just…"
Vey appeared beside them, holding out a hand.
Ceil blinked. Then slowly took it.
No one spoke as he stood, wincing.
---
Uneasy Silence
Later, after class, Kaien walked ahead, clearly irritated.
Sera lingered just a little longer. She turned to Ceil.
"You shouldn't have done that. You could've died."
Ceil shrugged, embarrassed.
"Better me than one of you."
She didn't smile. But her gaze softened, barely.
"Next time… ask before helping."
And then she walked away.
Vey stayed beside him. He didn't speak, but as they turned toward the dorms, he held up his notebook again.
A new drawing.
It showed four figures, huddled around a burning shard. One of them stood just outside the light.
Alone, but watching.
At the bottom, one word was scribbled in rough ink:
"Threading."
Ceil didn't know what it meant.
But something inside him whispered:
"The story is choosing its shape."
Chapter 3: The Door That Knows Your Name
The bruise on Ceil's shoulder had turned a deep purple by morning — stiff and aching whenever he moved. He hadn't told anyone about the fall in Combat Intro. Not the instructor, not the infirmary, and definitely not Vey, who sat at the desk with his head low, ink-stained fingers scribbling as always.
The room smelled faintly of old paper and lavender soap. Morning light filtered through the window, sharp and indifferent.
Ceil pulled on his uniform, muttering, "Morning."
Vey didn't respond. He never did — not with words, anyway. But he hesitated for a beat, hand paused mid-sentence.
That was Vey's way of answering.
Ceil sat down across from him, catching a glimpse of the sketchbook. A drawing peeked from under the edge of the page — a half-finished archway, crooked and ancient, vines strangling its stone frame.
Ceil's breath hitched.
He recognized it.
The gate in the garden. The one that shimmered in moonlight, as if the world itself blurred around it.
He looked up. Vey's eyes didn't meet his, but the sketch slid gently toward him — an unspoken message.
Then Ceil noticed something else.
A symbol, faint but sharp, inked on the inside of Vey's left wrist. It hadn't been there before. Like a brand made of ink and shadow, flickering as if it didn't fully belong to this world.
Before Ceil could ask, Vey closed his sleeve over it. Silently. Precisely.
---
The halls of Aldryn Academy felt heavier that morning — less like a school and more like a waiting room for judgment.
Whispers followed Ceil.
"There goes the cursed one."
"Survived a flicker spell? Must be fake."
"I heard his eyes turned black when he fell."
He didn't lift his gaze. He didn't need to. Pity hung thicker than cruelty, and he could feel it on his skin.
By now, Ceil had stopped wondering what exactly made him "cursed." He only knew the label stuck harder than truth ever could.
He joined Vey at their usual table for breakfast. Neither spoke. The silence between them wasn't awkward anymore — just tired.
Across the room, Kaien was flipping a token across his knuckles, sunlight catching his rings. Sera stood near him, arms crossed, nodding coolly to something he said. She glanced once toward Ceil.
Not at him. Through him.
He chewed the crust of dry bread and told himself he didn't care.
---
Their first class of the day: Magical History. Ceil slumped into the back row, Vey beside him like a shadow that refused to disappear.
The classroom was built like a chapel — vaulted ceilings, high glass windows, and shelves of ancient texts bound in locks and chain runes. The air smelled like dust and distant thunder.
Professor Lienne entered, brisk and unsmiling, with a voice like steel on stone.
"Today's lesson: the Five Forbidden Magics."
She didn't wait for questions.
"1. Soulcraft.
2. Time Sculpting.
3. Dreamroot Binding.
4. Ash Invocation.
5. And finally… Echo Magic."
A murmur passed through the room. Ceil leaned forward.
"Echo Magic," the professor repeated. "The art of inscribing narrative into reality. When wielded correctly, it doesn't just influence fate — it rewrites it."
A hand rose at the front. "You mean like illusions?"
"No." Her tone sharpened. "I mean facts that never were — rewritten into existence."
She tapped her board with her wand. "An example: There exists a ruin in the Wyrdlands — a village that vanishes from memory the moment you leave its borders. Cartographers have tried to map it. Priests to bless it. But when you step away…" She paused. "It's as though the village never lived."
A chill moved through the class.
"It is believed Echo Magic was used there — to bury something so deep, even time won't find it again."
Ceil felt his spine tighten.
Next to him, Vey was no longer writing. He was staring down at his closed book. A bead of sweat slid down his temple.
And then — slowly — Vey slid the notebook open and passed it across the table.
Written in tight, sharp script was one line:
"It wasn't buried. It was hidden."
Ceil read it. Looked up. Met Vey's eyes for just a moment.
There was something in them. A flash — too quick to name.
Fear?
No.
Recognition.
---
Ceil rubbed his eyes. The whispering had stopped, but the echo lingered in his chest like an imprint left by thunder. He glanced at Vey, who hadn't moved. Or maybe he had and returned before Ceil noticed.
A knock at the dorm door snapped him out of it.
"All new students to the third-floor terrace for Orientation Day Part Two," called the dormmaster, her voice enchanted to carry through walls.
Ceil and Vey left their room in silence. The halls buzzed with energy; students clustered together, showing off magical tricks or family heirlooms. Ceil kept his hands in his pockets.
On the terrace, teachers waited by circular rune-stones. Ceil recognized none of them, but he immediately noticed one who stood apart—a woman with jagged black hair and a wicked smile. Her cloak looked singed. She leaned on a spear that crackled faintly with blue flame.
"That one looks like a demon," someone muttered.
But when students approached her, she greeted them with kindness, even fixing the collar of a boy who'd come unprepared. The contrast unsettled Ceil.
"Welcome to Basic Combat Theory," she said, her voice smooth and clear. "Don't worry. You'll only lose fingers if you're reckless."
Most laughed nervously. Ceil didn't.
His group was assigned to her class.
---
Combat Theory
The class took place in a domed arena behind the terrace. Magical protections shimmered across the walls. The teacher introduced herself:
"Instructor Nyre. Most call me Demon Lady Nyre. You won't hurt my feelings."
She eyed the students one by one. Her gaze landed on Ceil for a second longer than the others.
"Magic is a tool. A weapon. A language. And sometimes, it's a scream in the dark. You'll learn all four."
The students paired off. Ceil was left without a partner until Vey silently stepped beside him. Instructor Nyre raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"No spells yet. I want to see how you think."
She pointed. "Ceil. Attack Vey."
Ceil froze. Vey looked at him calmly.
"I don't want to hurt him," Ceil said.
"You won't. He's drawn worse things than you."
Ceil hesitated, then rushed forward. Vey didn't move.
At the last second, Ceil changed direction and stopped short of Vey, aiming a feint.
"Interesting," Nyre said.
Then Vey raised his hand, showing a small paper with ink symbols. Ceil blinked—a wall of jagged shadow bloomed between them for a split second before vanishing.
"Did you draw that just now?" Nyre asked.
Vey nodded once.
Ceil looked at him in awe. The other students murmured.
Instructor Nyre smiled wider. "Echo talent. Dangerous. Rare."
---
Later That Night
Vey sat by the window again. Ceil couldn't sleep. He stared at the ceiling.
"What was that thing?" he asked.
Vey didn't answer immediately. Then he held up a piece of paper: a rough drawing of a tower crumbling into black mist.
"Something I dreamed," he mouthed. Then he flipped it over.
"If I draw it, it becomes real for a moment. But it hurts."
Ceil noticed Vey's hand trembling. He hadn't seen that before.
"Hurts how?"
Vey shrugged. Then he pulled up his sleeve slightly. Along his wrist, just above the inked mark, his veins pulsed darkly. Like ink had seeped into his blood.
Ceil looked away. "You should be careful."
Vey smiled faintly.
Then he passed Ceil another drawing.
It was the gate again.
But now it was open.
And someone stood on the other side, holding a book made of bone.
Ceil didn't know what frightened him more: the figure's empty eyes, or the fact that Vey had drawn it before Ceil had ever seen it.
---
The next morning, the sky above the academy was thick with clouds, casting long shadows across the grounds. Students moved in groups between classes, their laughter and chatter carried by the cold wind. Ceil followed the crowd quietly, his mind stuck on the drawing Vey had shown him the night before.
An open gate. A book made of bone. A figure with empty eyes.
It hadn't left him—not even in his dreams.
In Rune Theory, the instructor—a silver-bearded man named Master Edran—lectured on foundational spell structures. Ceil sat in the back, barely listening. Vey was beside him, sketching in his notebook, but Ceil noticed he wasn't drawing anything magical today. Only mundane things: a feather, a window, a spoon. Things that didn't hurt.
Ceil lowered his head, trying to focus. Maybe this was normal. Maybe nightmares were just that—nightmares.
But the moment he closed his eyes, he heard it again.
A whisper—not in words but emotion.
Dread.
He gripped the edge of the desk and stared forward.
---
Lunch Hall – An Unwanted Encounter
Later, in the dining hall, Ceil sat alone again. He didn't mind. Vey had disappeared, and the other students still gave Ceil a wide berth. The cursed orphan. The silent roommate. The ones who didn't belong.
Ceil stirred the stew on his tray. It tasted like nothing.
Across the room, a loud voice rose.
"Oi, freak!"
Ceil looked up just as a boy strode toward him—broad-shouldered, smirking. Kaien. Ceil remembered his name. Noble family. Loud, confident, always surrounded by others.
"You sit here every day like you're haunting the table," Kaien said, leaning in. "Maybe that's why everyone avoids you."
Ceil didn't respond.
Another boy laughed. "Maybe his curse's contagious."
Kaien knocked Ceil's cup over. The water spilled across the table.
Ceil stood, fists clenched. "Leave me alone."
Kaien grinned. "Or what?"
Before Ceil could answer, the lights flickered.
A chill swept through the room.
Every candle guttered low, and in the momentary dimness, Ceil saw something strange: Vey standing by the entrance, eyes wide—no, not wide. Focused. Watching. Not Ceil.
The gate.
The whisper returned, sharp this time.
He is near.
And then it was gone.
Kaien blinked. "What the hell was that?"
Ceil didn't wait to find out. He shoved past the students and ran.
---
The Hidden Wing
He didn't know why he ran or where he was going.
Through corridor after corridor, he followed instinct—or maybe the echo. Finally, he reached a door he hadn't seen before. Old wood. No sign. Slightly ajar.
He pushed it open.
The room beyond was lined with shelves. Books. Scrolls. Crystals that pulsed faintly. No one was inside.
Ceil stepped in. The door shut behind him.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a voice.
"You're not ready."
Ceil spun. No one.
The voice came again, deeper this time. Not cruel. Not kind.
"Curiosity breaks the seal. Foolish, but not uncommon."
From the shadows emerged a figure—a tall man in a long cloak, face obscured by strands of parchment that moved as if alive.
"You've heard it, haven't you?"
Ceil nodded. He didn't know why, but he did.
"The echo."
The man—no, the librarian—tilted his head. "You've stepped into the story's edge. Many have. Few return."
Ceil swallowed. "What story?"
The Librarian raised a hand. One book floated to him—dark leather, bound with something that wasn't quite string. He opened it.
"Your future."
Words began to form on the page, as if ink were writing itself.
Ceil leaned forward.
Then the Librarian snapped the book shut.
"Too soon."
"What does it mean?" Ceil asked.
The Librarian's parchment strands fluttered. "It means you've been chosen. Or cursed. Or both."
And then he faded.
Ceil was alone again.
Only the book remained, sitting on the table.
Waiting.