The climb to the dormitories was long, a winding ascent carved into the side of the academy's cliffside foundations. By day, Ravenwood's dormitory tower looked like a castle watchtower, its spire piercing the clouds, offering students a breathtaking view of the valley below. But at night, the same tower seemed less like a sanctuary and more like a prison—its windows glowing faintly like the eyes of some half-slumbering beast.
Shinjō Kura's footsteps echoed up the stairwell, each step ringing hollow against the stones. He had lingered too long after class, unsettled by the cryptic warnings whispered by Lila Frost. Don't look for me after dark. The words followed him even now, threading themselves through his thoughts with the persistence of a curse.
He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag. Back in Japan, he had learned how to drown voices—his father's drunken shouting, his mother's silence, the cruel laughter of classmates who mocked him for being different, for being weak. He had learned how to bury sound beneath walls of indifference. Yet here, in Ravenwood's halls, every whisper seemed to seep through his defenses like icy water through cracked stone.
The stairwell opened into the upper corridor. Lanterns hung along the walls, their flames too dim, swaying against the draft. The dormitory smelled faintly of damp wood and cold stone, though no rain had fallen in days. His room was at the far end—Room 317. A number he had already grown to dislike.
As he pushed the door open, the silence inside pressed down at once. He had expected quiet, yes, but not this kind of silence—thick, watchful, alive. His single lantern flickered as he lit it, throwing long, shuddering shadows across the walls. The room was simple: bed, desk, wardrobe, a narrow window overlooking the sheer cliff. A place that should have offered rest after the day's burdens. Yet it felt less like a bedroom and more like a stage, waiting for something unseen to step into the light.
He tossed his bag on the bed and sat at the desk, trying to distract himself by unpacking his notebooks. His handwriting stared back at him, messy scrawls in a language half his classmates still stumbled over. He should have felt relief—this place was far from his father's reach, far from the sneering voices of his peers. And yet, Ravenwood's isolation carried its own cruelty. Here, silence judged him just as harshly.
Then came the sound.
It was faint at first, a scratch along the doorframe, as though nails dragged slowly across wood. Kura froze, every muscle tensing. He told himself it was another student—someone playing a prank. But the sound grew—scratching became whispering, a chorus of overlapping voices just beyond the door. Male, female, old, young. Words indistinct, yet urgent.
He rose from his chair, breath shallow, and yanked the door open.
The corridor stretched empty, lanterns swaying gently as though disturbed by some passing breath. No footsteps, no pranksters. Only silence.
When he closed the door again, the whispers followed him back inside. This time, from the walls themselves.
Empty… forgotten… cold… ours… ours… ours.
The air thickened. His breath clouded before him, white mist curling in the lantern's light. The flame bent sideways as though blown by invisible wind. Shadows in the corners began to ripple, twisting, writhing as if trying to pull themselves free from the walls.
Kura's pulse pounded in his ears. He staggered back until his spine pressed against the desk. His instincts screamed to run, but the door slammed shut on its own, sealing him inside.
The shadows lengthened. Fingers—thin, impossibly long—uncoiled from the darkness, reaching toward him.
"Kura."
The voice was sharp but familiar.
He turned. Lila Frost stood inside the room now, though he hadn't seen the door open. Her silver hair glimmered like threads of moonlight, her eyes pale and glasslike. She seemed both there and not there, her edges blurred as though the lantern's light rejected her.
"You shouldn't stay alone," she said, her voice carrying the weight of a sigh.
Kura's breath hitched. "Lila… how did you—?"
She lifted a hand. "Questions later. Listen first, or they'll swallow you." She gestured toward the walls where shadows still writhed, held back only by her presence.
Kura swallowed, his fists clenching. "What are they?"
"Echoes," she whispered. "The academy doesn't just house students. It traps them. Those who lose themselves—fear, despair, failure—they leave pieces behind. Pieces that grow hungry." Her eyes lingered on him. "And you… you've already caught their attention."
Her words sliced through him. "Why me?"
"You carry scars, don't you?" Lila asked quietly, almost gently. "From where you came from. They smell it. Pain, loneliness, rejection… it makes you shine to them, like a beacon in the fog."
Kura flinched, her words digging into wounds he hated to name. "…And you? You seem to know too much. What are you to all this?"
For the first time, her glasslike eyes softened. She stepped closer, and he noticed frost forming under her bare feet where they touched the stone floor.
"My family never left this place," she said, voice faint, like she was telling a story she wished she could forget. "The Frosts were among Ravenwood's first students, but they weren't just scholars. They… bound themselves to the academy. To its power. My mother believed it was a gift, a way to protect us. But it became a curse instead. Now I walk between worlds—half student, half shadow."
Her lips trembled, but she pressed on. "I can't leave. I can't even exist fully outside the academy walls. When the sun sets, I'm no different than them." She nodded toward the clawing shapes at the edges of the room. "I can keep them back—for now—but I am still bound to the same fate."
The frost deepened across the floor, creeping toward Kura's shoes. He shivered but did not move back.
"So why warn me?" he asked, his voice low.
"Because," she said, meeting his gaze with sudden intensity, "you're the first person in a long time who doesn't look at me with fear or pity. And maybe… maybe you're the only one who can fight what Ravenwood really is."
The words hung in the cold air between them, a fragile bridge over a gulf of shadows.
Then, as if on cue, the lantern sputtered. Darkness surged, pressing harder against the walls. Lila stepped back, her form flickering.
"I can't hold them forever," she whispered. "When they come again… don't fight alone."
And then, with a sharp gust of icy wind, she was gone.
The lantern flared weakly back to life, but the frost remained—spreading in the shape of an unblinking eye across the windowpane. Watching. Waiting.
Kura collapsed against the desk, his chest heaving. Ravenwood's night had claimed him, and now, he knew, it would not let him go.