One month later.
Gareth burst through the academy's iron gates, breathless, boots splashing through the thin veil of morning rain that still clung to the stone. His hair — usually untidy — had reached new levels of rebellion, and in his frantic dash he'd forgotten the most important piece of his uniform: the hat.
Cassiel would never let him live this down.
He tugged at the collar of his Draemond uniform as if that might make up for it, the crisp gray fabric already wrinkled by the run. Students in neat lines streamed into the lecture hall ahead of him, some girls giggling behind gloved hands when they caught his hatless state. Gareth offered a sheepish grin, cheeks warming.
Inside, the classroom looked more like a hall of ceremony than a place of study. The tall windows were banded with iron, pale light cutting across oaken desks worn smooth by generations of restless hands.
At the front stood their instructor — Mistress Avelra. Her attire was unlike the sharp uniforms of the students: a long, high-collared gown of deep indigo, its hem brushed with silver embroidery shaped like suns breaking through storm clouds. Her sleeves were buttoned to the wrist, and her dark hair was gathered into a braided crown, streaked with gray. There was a severity to her presence, yet something old-fashioned too, as if she had stepped out of another century and refused to change with the world.
"You are late, Gareth Valven," she said, her voice cool as polished glass.
A few laughs stirred from the back rows. Gareth winced, scratching the back of his neck. "Just… testing how fast the gates close, Mistress."
Even Cassiel, who usually matched Gareth's antics, barked a laugh. The teacher's expression did not change.
"Sit," she ordered, chalk in hand. "Perhaps you will learn before the bell decides to abandon you as well."
Gareth slipped into his seat beside Cassiel at the back, muttering, "That went well."
Cassiel smirked. "Hatless and late? You're making history."
Gareth couldn't help the grin tugging at his lips. For all the strangeness and weight pressing at the corners of his life, this — sitting in the back row with Cassiel, trading jabs — felt almost like he belonged.
Then Mistress Avelra struck the chalk against the board with a sound sharp as breaking glass.
"Today," she began, her eyes sweeping the hall, "we turn to what anchors the very soul. The Weapons of the Veil."
The classroom smelled faintly of parchment and chalk dust. Miss Arven — tall, stern, her dark dress stitched with the high collars and pleats of old Draemond fashion — tapped the chalkboard with the end of her pointer. The sound snapped the room to silence.
"It has been one month since you entered these halls," she began, her voice smooth, carrying the weight of tradition. "And now you are ready to be told of the Veil's recognition — the weapons and the marks."
Quills scratched faintly as students leaned in, eyes sharp.
"There are countless weapons in the world, forged by mortal hand and divine flame alike. But only ten are recognized by the Source. Ten branches upon which destiny itself hangs."
She wrote them slowly, the chalk hissing as names filled the board in curling script.
"The Sword. The Spear. The Bow. The Shield. The Crown. The Chain. The Mask. The Mirror. The Flame. The Bell."
A hush clung to the air.
"These are not merely weapons. They are paths. To wield one is not always to hold it in your hand. Some become the weapon itself — flesh and soul reshaped through the Veil."
Her pointer tapped the board, sharp as a gavel.
"One per lifetime. That is the law of the Source. To develop two? …" She let the silence linger before smiling thinly. "It is as if one were to drop a single atom into a dead universe and pray it might ignite a star. Possible… but hopeless."
Gareth leaned back in his chair, muttering under his breath, "Guess I'll need a bigger universe, then."
A few students glanced his way, half-smiling, but Miss Arven ignored it, her gaze fixed like glass.
"Beyond weapons, there are Marks. Some of you will bear them, some will not. They are not earned — they are chosen. When a god reaches through the Veil and binds you in contract, both mortal and divine benefit. But beware…" Her tone dropped, her words turning heavy. "Not all gods are saviors. Some are calamities wearing crowns."
Murmurs swept the class.
"And then… there are the Seals. Ten in all, scattered across the world. Rare. Dangerous. Said to house truths that once broke empires."
She let the words hang before continuing.
"There exist also cursed words — syllables forbidden to mortal tongue. To speak them is to invite death. Do not think of them as myth. Even the greatest of kings fell for less."
Finally, her hand rested at the bottom of the chalkboard, writing one last phrase in looping silver chalk:
The Kingdom of Sion — blessed of the Sun God, throne of the Sun King.
She straightened her dress, voice firm.
"These are the foundations of our world. The branches you will grow upon. The contracts you may one day bind. Remember them well — for history does not forgive ignorance."
The bell tolled. Its iron song shook the walls. Miss Arven set the chalk down and closed her book.
"That is enough for today." She turned, skirts sweeping as she left, her presence trailing silence.
Gareth exhaled, finally leaning forward, his grin crooked but his eyes sharper than before. For the first time, he felt he had truly glimpsed the weight of the Veil.
The bell had barely stopped ringing when the doors opened again.
The air shifted.
Another figure entered — tall, robed in black so heavy it seemed to drink in the light. His boots struck stone with a rhythm too deliberate, too final. His hair, long and white, was bound in a single rope that reached past his shoulders. A scar ran across one eye, sealing it in a permanent half-glare, and the other was so sharp it felt like a blade itself.
Silence followed him. Even the scrape of chairs stilled.
This was Master Vorian.
Students straightened instantly, their whispers dying as if cut by a knife. Some held their breaths. Others stared forward with cold, empty expressions, already calculating how to survive his gaze.
Gods, why is it him? Gareth thought, sinking a little lower in his seat. I'm late, hatless, and now Vorian. Perfect.
Next to him, Cassiel leaned over, voice a whisper. "Did you eat?"
Gareth blinked. "What?"
"You didn't eat breakfast, did you? You've got that hollow look again. Like you're about to faint. Or die. Or both."
"Cassiel…" Gareth muttered through clenched teeth, "not now."
But Cassiel wasn't done. He tapped his quill idly against the desk, eyes fixed on Gareth as if measuring his face instead of the scarred monster at the front. "See? You're pale. Definitely starving. I'll grab you something later, don't worry."
Why… why did I sit next to him? Gareth thought, pulse quickening. Anyone else, and I'd be safe. But no, it had to be Cassiel — the only person in Draemond who talks more than the bell.
Vorian's eye cut across the room. The kind of look that could pin a hawk mid-flight.
It landed on them.
Gareth froze, forcing his gaze forward, hands locked on the desk like it might anchor him to survival. His mind screamed: Don't move. Don't blink. Don't exist.
Cassiel, oblivious, kept talking. "What's wrong with you? You look like you've just seen death himself. Hey—"
The sound came too fast to register. A crack sharp as a whip.
Cassiel's head snapped to the side, cheek already red, his quill clattering to the floor.
The slap wasn't just punishment — it was a statement.
Master Vorian's hand lowered slowly, his expression unreadable, his scarred face locked in that same unblinking glare. "Outside."
The word was flat. A command, not a suggestion.
For once, Cassiel was silent. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by stunned disbelief. He rose, every step sluggish, dragging toward the door as if the entire class watched his humiliation carve itself into memory.
Gareth sat rigid, heat rushing to his chest. Part of him wanted to follow, to speak, to do something. But Vorian's eye swept past him like a blade, and Gareth locked his gaze forward, heart hammering.
As he shuffled toward the door, the room silent as a tomb, Gareth felt the laugh bubble in his chest before he could stop it. It slipped out — quick, sharp, impossible to hold back.
Cassiel froze mid-step and turned his head just enough to shoot Gareth a glare that promised revenge.
Gareth covered his mouth, shoulders shaking, eyes locked on the desk in front of him, pretending he hadn't just broken the silence.
But a few muffled snickers rippled from the back rows. The tension cracked, if only for a heartbeat.
Vorian's eye flicked toward Gareth — sharp, questioning.
Gareth straightened instantly, swallowing down the rest of his laugh, heart pounding. Stupid. Stupid. Why did I do that?
Cassiel slipped out the door without a word, but that glare lingered in Gareth's mind like fire.
Yeah… I'm dead after class.
Master Vorian turned back to the board, his voice deep, cold, each word carrying like iron dropped in water.
"Numbers," he said simply, chalk dragging in harsh strokes. "The first and oldest language of the Source. The measure of power, of distance, of time. If you cannot master numbers, you cannot master anything."
Lines of fractions and complex runes unfolded across the slate. The room stayed deathly quiet as he worked, every scrape of chalk slicing at Gareth's nerves.
Gareth squinted, trying to follow, but the numbers blurred. His temples throbbed, a faint ache curling at the back of his skull. Not this… His mind dragged against a memory — another classroom, tiled walls, a droning voice, the stench of ink and sweat. Numbers scribbled in red across a test sheet. His younger self staring down, hollow and hating every second of it.
His jaw clenched. Why did it have to be numbers?
The lesson crawled on, Vorian's tone unchanging, relentless. By the time the bell tolled, Gareth exhaled in relief, slumping back in his chair.
But then it happened.
A voice from the front row — sharp, eager, cutting through the shuffle of closing books.
"Master Vorian, what about the assignment for tomorrow?"
The entire hall froze.
Every eye turned.
A murmur rolled through the students, low and dangerous. One boy in the corner actually hissed.
"You've got to be joking."
"Who asks that?"
"Does he want us dead?"
Hats came off in silent threat, a few slammed against desks. Faces twisted in scowls.
Gareth's teeth ground together, heat sparking in his chest. Perfect. Just perfect. He leaned back, voice low, muttering to Cassiel though he's not here and anyone nearby could not hear:
"Now my day's gotten a lot worse than I thought. I'd beat him too, but I'm too busy."
Cassiel barked a laugh, still rubbing his cheek from earlier. A few others nodded in solidarity.
By the time Gareth rose from his seat, the storm of glares in the room had all but swallowed the poor fool in the front row.
Gareth shoved his hands into his pockets, shouldering past the others with a scowl that softened only once he stepped into the cooler air of the corridor.
The corridors of Highwarden commoner's Academy hummed with the chatter of students spilling from their classrooms, the air thick with complaints, gossip, and plans for the day ahead. Gareth kept his pace steady, boots striking against polished stone, expression flat as though the noise around him didn't exist.
He slipped through a quieter hallway, the bustle behind him fading. His hand brushed against the pocket of his uniform coat where the folded map was hidden—a map of places no one here would ever understand.
At the far end of the corridor, shadows warped unnaturally, the edges curling like smoke. A faint tug in his chest answered the call before he even stepped closer. With a soft exhale, Gareth leaned in—and the world around him fractured.
The cold rush of nothingness swallowed him whole.
When he emerged, he was no longer Gareth Valven, seated at the back of a classroom. He stood in the silent void of Umbrael's domain, a place without horizon, without floor, without ceiling. His Draemond uniform shimmered, threads unwinding into something darker—an attire forged for another life.
A white mask, smooth and faceless, hovered before him as if waiting. Without hesitation, he raised it and let it settle against his skin. His voice, muffled but steady, broke the silence.
"Umbrael."
The air rippled. From the abyss stepped a figure—a woman draped in shifting shadows, her features both beautiful and unnerving, as though sculpted from smoke and starlight. Her eyes, twin pools of violet flame, lingered on him.
"Teleport me to Yimen," Gareth said, his tone clipped, leaving no room for refusal. "I need the coordinates of the Cult of the Eradicators."
Umbrael's lips curved into something between a smile and a warning. Her voice carried, soft yet echoing with an ancient resonance.
"We are not even close to finding it," she said. "The cult is everywhere—yet nowhere. A shadow scattered across the world, rooted in silence, thriving in blood. To chase them is to chase smoke through your fingers."
The mask hid Gareth's expression, but behind it, his jaw tightened. The void seemed to press closer, waiting for his answer.
The void dissolved, and the scene shifted.
Somewhere far from Gareth, beyond the noise of classrooms and crowded halls, a hidden room stirred awake. Its walls were paneled with black oak, the air thick with incense that curled in slow, suffocating spirals. The only light came from a dozen candles placed around a stone table, their flames shivering like nervous hearts.
At the center knelt a man dressed in Highwarden uniform—at least, that was the disguise. The crimson-trimmed jacket clung too tight to his broad, scarred frame, the cloth straining over armor etched with symbols that had no place in any academy. His head was lowered, his long hair bound back in a warrior's knot, a crude iron mask dangling from his hand.
"Master," he rasped, voice echoing against the chamber's silence. "I have managed to sneak into the Highwarden school. Rest assured—everything about the prophecy is going as indicated."
The candles flickered violently, shadows bending toward him as though listening.
"The boy will give the result soon."
From the corner of the chamber, something unseen exhaled. The sound was low, distorted—half whisper, half growl. The kneeling figure pressed his head even lower to the floor, as if before a god that should not be seen.
And the mansion's silence swallowed the moment whole.