Isolde's Perspective:-
The night was unusually silent at Origin Academy. Lanterns flickered in the courtyards, casting long, uneven shadows across the stone paths. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if wary of stirring the fragile peace after the trials.
In one of the S-Class dormitories, Isolde Thorne sat alone by the window, knees drawn to her chest, her blade leaning against the wall. The glow of the moon painted her hair silver, highlighting the sharp angles of her face. She stared out at the sleeping campus, but her thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the events of the day.
So, S-Class.
The words circled her mind, stubborn and cold. She had made it. She had passed the trial. And yet… it wasn't a victory in the way she had imagined.
Malrik Veynor had been chosen by the Principal as a hero, his bright, unshakable aura shining like a beacon. Students whispered about him already, calling him "the rising star," the "chosen light." And Zeryth Malakar… well, even the Vice Principal had selected him as a disciple.
Of course.
Her fingers brushed against the hilt of her blade, a small comfort. Every action, every thought, every word she had spoken during the trial had been precise, calculated. Yet now, even precision felt insufficient. The spotlight had shifted. The game had changed.
Isolde's gaze fell upon Zeryth's empty bed across the room. He wasn't here. Probably already in the Vice Principal's study, absorbing knowledge, testing boundaries, expanding his influence in ways that would make ordinary students tremble.
I should watch him carefully.
Her instincts told her as much. Zeryth was no ordinary student. His calm, his precision, his quiet amusement… there was something beneath the surface, something that did not belong in a child of twelve.
She remembered the trials themselves—the moment he had stepped forward, untouched by the chaos of wolves and collapsing platforms, executing every action with unnerving control. Even Malrik had glanced at him with awe. Yes, awe. That simple word annoyed her more than any insult ever could.
Isolde leaned back, letting the cool night air brush her face. She replayed the events of the trial in her mind.
The wolves had come in packs, their teeth and claws a test of raw survival. Students had scrambled, some frozen with fear, some thrown into desperate, uncoordinated attacks. And Zeryth? He had moved through it like a shadow, precise, untouchable.
And the way he disintegrated…
Her jaw tightened at the memory. Not merely defeated wolves—he had torn apart their traits, absorbed them, integrated their instincts into himself. She remembered seeing the glow around him, subtle yet undeniable.
That kind of power…
Her mind recoiled at the implications. Zeryth was not just a student. He was a predator, a creature who toyed with strength far beyond his age. And he had been watching. Always watching. Every student's move, every weakness, every opportunity… cataloged and assessed.
I need to understand him before he becomes a threat.
But there was more than caution in her thoughts. A spark of fascination had taken root. Zeryth was a puzzle. Not one of those naive, simple puzzles—he was dangerous, complicated, and alluring in his intellect. A challenge. And challenges were worth observing.
Isolde's eyes drifted to the empty space in the dormitory where Malrik would have been. Even in his absence, she could feel the residue of his aura—the warmth, the determination, the bright, naive insistence on justice.
Hero material, they say…
The thought made her scoff quietly. Heroes were predictable, molded by expectation, and often blind to the intricacies of the world around them. Malrik would fight for ideals. He would bleed for them. And yet, in this controlled environment, under the Principal's guidance, he might very well grow into the symbol everyone expected him to become.
But even symbols can be… redirected.
Her fingers twitched at the thought. Yes, she could watch him. Learn him. If necessary, bend him subtly without him even realizing it. He was bright, but malleable. And that made him useful.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
"Enter," she called, keeping her voice calm.
The Vice Principal stepped in, silver streaks catching the lamplight, her expression unreadable. She didn't sit; she didn't smile. She simply observed, and that in itself was a form of judgment.
"Isolde Thorne," she said finally, voice precise, deliberate. "You have passed the trial. S-Class is yours."
Isolde inclined her head. "Thank you."
The Vice Principal's gaze shifted slightly, as though measuring weight and resolve simultaneously. "S-Class will test you in ways far beyond physical combat. You will be expected to maintain discipline, gather information, and execute strategy. The first lessons begin at dawn. Be ready."
"Yes," Isolde said. Not a question. Not a plea. Just acknowledgment.
She left without another word, leaving Isolde alone again. The message was clear: the Vice Principal had recognized potential, but she would expect results.
Alone once more, Isolde allowed herself a moment to think.
The Academy was more than a school; it was a stage. A crucible. Every student, every teacher, every rule… it existed to shape power. And power, Isolde knew, was never neutral.
Her thoughts returned to Zeryth.
He is… dangerous.
Not just physically. Not just because of the powers he wielded. But because he thought like no child she had ever met. He observed, adapted, manipulated. He could read people as easily as they breathed. And he was clever enough to hide the edges of his ambition behind the mask of a student.
I need to watch him. And I need to know where I stand.
She rose from the window, the moonlight slipping from her hair, and drew her blade. A light, careful test. A practice swing that whispered through the air. She would not be unprepared.
If he is to be a shadow in this Academy, I will be the thorn.
Not for heroics. Not for vengeance. But for herself. For the chance to shape her own path.
And perhaps, in time, to bend even him to her understanding.
Isolde returned to her bed, rolling the blade under her mattress. Her pulse slowed as she lay down, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Tomorrow would bring the first lessons, the first real tests. And the first chance to see how Zeryth wielded his influence now that the Vice Principal had taken him as a disciple.
The game begins now, she thought, a quiet fire igniting behind her eyes.
The world had placed Malrik in the Principal's hand, Zeryth in the Vice Principal's grip… and her? She would make her own choices. Her own moves.
Because shadows and thorns, when carefully placed, could pierce even the brightest light.