The morning after the confrontation was strangely quiet.
The academy, still recovering from the weight of the night before, seemed to hold its breath.
High above, in one of the tower corridors overlooking the main courtyard, Valari Ka'tarel and Headmistress Raukher Myr stood in silence. The soft rays of dawn filtered through the arched windows, catching on the dust motes that floated lazily in the air.
For a long moment, neither woman spoke. The faint echo of a bell rang through the distance, signaling the start of a new day, but it felt muted — as if even the world feared to intrude upon what had happened.
Valari's voice finally broke the quiet.
"He was… furious. I've seen men lash out in rage, but that wasn't anger. It was grief. What is he, Myr?"
Myr didn't respond immediately. She walked to the window, her fingers brushing the cold stone sill. The morning wind slipped through, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and blooming lilacs.
"When I was young," Myr said softly, "my grandfather used to tell me stories before I slept. Not fairy tales — but things he claimed were real. Memories he swore weren't his own."
Valari tilted her head, frowning slightly, but Myr's eyes were far away now, already drifting into the past.
"He said he met an old traveler once — or perhaps not old at all. A boy, really. White hair, eyes too dark to be called black. He walked like someone who had forgotten what it meant to have a destination. They met on a rainy road, and the boy was sitting under a dead tree, humming to himself."
The headmistress's voice softened into something wistful, almost fragile.
"My grandfather asked him where he was headed. The boy smiled — not happily, not sadly, just… empty — and said, 'Everywhere I haven't been, and everywhere I'll forget.'"
Valari's frown deepened. "What kind of answer is that?"
Myr smiled faintly. "That's what my grandfather said too. He thought the boy was mad. But then… he noticed something strange."
The wind seemed to hush, as if listening.
"The boy didn't cast a shadow," Myr whispered. "And when thunder struck a tree nearby, it didn't burn — it froze. He called that boy cursed, but the boy only laughed. Said he was 'just someone who stayed too long.'"
Valari's composure faltered. "Stayed too long…?"
"Yes." Myr's eyes were distant now, her tone turning quiet and sorrowful. "He told my grandfather that he used to live among people. He used to help them. But theykept dying — faster than he could remember their names. Kingdoms rose, fell, and he remained. Each time, he changed his face, his name, his history. Until one day, he stopped changing — because there was no one left to remember who he was."
A chill crept down Valari's spine.
"And he carried something with him," Myr continued. "An eye that saw too much — not just the present, but every fragment of what could be. He said it was a curse, but also his punishment. Because every time he looked into someone's eyes, he saw the end of their story before it began."
She sighed, the weight of centuries heavy in her voice.
"My grandfather said the boy saved him once. From bandits, or perhaps something worse. But when he turned to thank him, the boy was gone. Only a trail of footprints remained — and a feather, burnt at the edges. Years later, when my grandfather grew old, he told me that boy was still walking the world. Watching. Waiting."
Valari was silent for a long time. The story had settled into her bones like cold rain.
Then, in a low voice, she said, "And you think…?"
Myr didn't answer. She turned from the window, her expression unreadable, her gaze lowered to the courtyard below — where, unseen by them, Eris Vale stood quietly beneath a flowering tree, his hands folded behind his back, his shadow faint in the early light.
"I don't think anything," Myr said at last. "But my grandfather's wanderer… he said one last thing before they parted."
Valari glanced at her. "What was it?"
Myr's lips moved slowly, her voice a whisper lost in the wind.
"The sky forgets, the earth forgives, but time remembers everything — and so do I."
The wind sighed through the corridor again, carrying the scent of lilacs away.
And for a fleeting second, Valari thought she heard the faintest echo of laughter — quiet, distant, and unbearably lonely.The sun had climbed high enough to spill through the open curtains, scattering pale gold across the chamber. The faint hum of aether wards filled the silence like a heartbeat.
Saphine stirred first.
Her lashes fluttered against the light as she blinked awake, the soft sheets tangled around her. Beside her, the Saintess's daughter still slept soundly — her breathing slow and even, like a child's. There was something peaceful about her face, as though the horrors they'd witnessed had never happened.
Saphine sat up slowly, pressing a hand to her temple. Her body still ached faintly from the strain of the Resonant Hollow, but it wasn't pain that troubled her. It was a dream.A strange, vivid dream — a memory that wasn't hers.
She saw flashes of a boy walking through endless fields, white hair swaying under blue skies that never changed. Faces came and went. Cities rose and fell. And through it all, the boy kept walking, his eyes always turned toward a horizon that never drew closer.
She didn't understand it. But she felt it. The same weight that hid behind Eris's calm, the loneliness that never spoke its name.
Her fingers curled against the sheets.
"Eris…" she murmured softly.Outside, standing beneath the shade of a flowering tree, Eris Vale watched the rising sun. His coat fluttered lightly in the wind. From this distance, he could see Saphine's silhouette through the window — sitting on the bed beside the sleeping girl.
For a long while, he said nothing. His expression was unreadable, his gaze distant.
He had lived through countless dawns, but mornings like this — quiet, ordinary — were rare. And they were always the most dangerous.
Because they made him forget.
Forget that he wasn't meant to stay.
Forget that everything he touched eventually faded.A soft rustle broke his thoughts.
He turned slightly as Valari Ka'tarel and Raukher Myr approached from the far end of the courtyard, their expressions composed but cautious.
Myr was the first to speak, her voice polite yet careful.
"You've been here since dawn."
Eris didn't turn fully to face them. His eyes remained on the window.
"Old habits," he said simply. "It's easier to watch the sunrise when you're not certain if the next one will come."
Valari's brows knit. "You speak like a man expecting an end."He finally turned then, meeting her gaze. The sharpness in his eyes wasn't hostile — it was ancient.
"Everything ends, Valari. I just have a longer seat at the table."
The silence that followed made the air feel colder. Even the breeze seemed to hesitate before passing through.
Myr exhaled slowly, steadying herself. "You're… different today. Your aether is unstable."
Eris's jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm.
"Instability is relative, Headmistress. You've simply never seen the world breathe the way I do."Valari stepped forward, frowning. "Why the hostility, then? We came to make sure the girl was safe. There's no need for this tension."
Before she could take another step, the air between them shimmered faintly — a transparent wall of condensed aether forming instinctively from Eris's presence.
It wasn't an attack. It was reflex.
The headmistress felt it too. Her hand twitched toward her side before she caught herself.
"He's not angry," Myr said quietly, eyes still fixed on Eris. "He's remembering."
Valari blinked. "Remembering?"But Myr didn't answer. Her voice softened, like she was speaking to herself as much as to Valari.
"The longer his gaze stays open, the more of what he's seen floods back. For most of us, memory is something we keep. For him… it's something that keeps him."
Valari glanced between them, uneasy. "You speak as if you've known him all your life."
Myr smiled faintly. "Not mine. My grandfather's. He told me a story once—"
Valari raised a hand. "Another story?"
"—and I think you should hear it," Myr continued gently. "He called it The Boy Who Stayed Too Long."Valari sighed, but something in Myr's eyes made her fall silent.
So Myr began to speak.
She told her the story of a nameless wanderer — a boy who once smiled under endless skies, who outlived everyone he cared for, whose gaze became too heavy with years.
She told of how her grandfather met him, how he saved him, and how, in the end, the boy's shadow was the only thing that remained when he walked away.
But she never said his name.
As she spoke, the breeze carried the scent of the garden through the hall, soft and mournful.When she finished, Valari stood still for a long moment, the weight of the tale pressing into her chest.
Then she turned her gaze back toward the window, where Saphine's room stood above them — and saw Eris still there, motionless beneath the tree.
"And you think…" she began.
Myr smiled faintly. "I think nothing, Valari. But sometimes, when I look into his eyes… I feel like I'm the one being remembered."
They both fell silent.Up above, the curtain fluttered slightly as Saphine leaned against the glass, her expression soft and uncertain. She looked down at Eris, who glanced up at that exact moment — their eyes meeting across the distance.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
Neither spoke.
But something unseen passed between them — like a quiet promise shared beneath the endless sky.