The morning sunlight spilled across the white stone of Aetherline Academy's arena, scattering pale reflections over the polished floor. The protective wards etched into the circular arena shimmered faintly, pulsing almost like a heartbeat. The hum they emitted was soft but alive, a quiet promise of containment, control, and the tension coiling in the air.
Students crowded the gallery, their low murmur weaving together into a single, anticipatory thrum. For most of them, these sparring matches were entertainment, a chance to witness skill and spirit in motion—but for Erevan, the arena felt like a cage.
His hands were damp with sweat even though the air was crisp, brushing cool against his face. His heart hammered in uneven stutters, a storm trapped inside his chest. Every glance from the gallery felt like a weight pressing down. Every whisper seemed sharpened, cutting a little deeper than it should. He tried to anchor himself on the faintly glowing runes beneath his feet, tracing their edges with his eyes, but his thoughts kept drifting. He could hear the murmurs, slicing through the tension: anticipation, amusement, judgment. They had always expected him to fail.
A whisper slithered into his mind, low and taunting. Relax, little vessel. They cheer for blood, but they do not care whose it is. Let them marvel at yours—transformed.
Erevan clenched his jaw, suppressing a shiver. It was more than sound; it was a presence, coiled at the edge of his consciousness, teasing, probing. A reminder of the hunger he had worked so hard to bury. He could feel it there—the memory of the practice hall, the girl whose spirit had faltered beneath his touch, the rush he had felt. Unyielding. Impossible to ignore. Harrax pulsed behind his heartbeat, alive in the shadow of his own chest.
Across the arena, Cassian moved with the easy grace of someone born to command attention. Golden hair catching the sunlight, he adjusted the collar of his dueling jacket, silver trim gleaming. Every motion was deliberate, fluid, controlled. He did not fidget. He did not rush. He simply existed in a rhythm that demanded notice.
The spirits coiled around him like loyal shadows. A wraith of smoke curled over his shoulders, and a feline spirit's tail flicked with preternatural awareness. Golden eyes found Erevan's, sharp, calculating. There was no mockery, no jeer—just the silent question hanging in the space between them: Will you rise, or will you crumble?
Erevan's throat went dry. The anticipation in the arena pressed into his lungs, heavy, urging him to flee. Every instinct screamed: hide. Stay small. Stay invisible.
They called you weak. They mocked you. Shall we show them what crawls in the dark between their lights? Shall we remind them who you are?
His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. No. Not here. Not now. Not in front of them. He had learned restraint. He had learned to hide the shadow, to keep the anomaly coiled just beneath the surface. And yet—the temptation clawed at him with velvet fingers. Every heartbeat carried the memory of power. Every nerve hummed with potential.
Master Deymour's voice cut through the gallery murmur like a bell, crisp and authoritative. This is a sanctioned sparring exercise. Boundaries are set. Wards are active. Contestants, summon your partners.
Cassian's hands moved fluidly, tracing the runes of his contract sigils. Two circles erupted around him in flashes of light. From the first, a knightly spirit emerged, armored in radiant steel, its blade catching sunlight and scattering it across the arena floor. From the second, a fire elemental erupted, molten and roiling, heat radiating outward even across the gallery.
Together, they were perfection in motion: disciplined, balanced, terrifying. The crowd whispered, some gasped, some applauded. They had seen him before. They expected excellence. Cassian never disappointed.
Erevan's throat tightened. His own circle remained dark, empty. Every attempt to summon a spirit in the past had ended in failure, leaving him exposed, mocked, invisible. And yet… he was not invisible anymore.
A whisper slithered closer, insistent, cruel, velvet: Call me. They will stop laughing. They will feel fear. They will know you are no one to mock.
"No," he thought fiercely. Not here. Not now. The arena was a stage, yes, but it was not his battleground. His heart raced, wild and chaotic, as he fought the pull of the shadow. The temptation to unleash the power he barely understood gnawed at him like a living thing.
The students murmured again. Some noticed his hesitation, others smirked at the familiar performance of failure. His hands shook as he raised them slightly, tracing invisible shapes in the air. His lips parted, almost whispering words of summoning, but the courage faltered, slipping through his fingers like water.
Cassian's chuckle cut through the silence, casual, sharp. Still empty, I see, he said, voice carrying easily across the gallery. The knight spirit saluted mockingly. The fire elemental flared with impatience. Laughter rippled through the students—sharp, cruel, biting.
Erevan's chest constricted. Shame, frustration, and fear tangled into a single, oppressive knot. He could almost feel the noose tightening with each second of delay. And yet, beneath that panic, a flicker stirred—something darker, something that whispered of power, hunger, transformation.
The chalk lines on the arena floor began to pulse faintly, almost imperceptibly at first, as though the stone itself was inhaling. Erevan had not moved. He had not spoken. Yet the sigils beneath his feet quivered, black veins twisting beneath the polished surface. A ripple passed through the gallery—soft gasps, quick breaths, the whisper of curiosity tangling with unease.
Master Deymour's voice rang out, sharp and alarmed. What is that?
Cassian's spirits reacted instantly. The knight raised its shield, molten sparks from the elemental flickering as if startled. The feline and wraith coiled tighter around him, alert, ready. Even the students froze, whispers strangled in their throats, eyes wide with awe and fear.
A laugh—low, intimate, impossible to ignore—slithered through Erevan's mind. Too late to hide, little vessel. They have called you weak. Shall we show them why?
He pressed his palms to his face, trying to suppress the tremor running through his arms and chest. Beneath him, the shadow pulsed stronger, alive, patient, waiting.
The arena seemed to hold its breath with him. Even Cassian's composed mask faltered; a flicker of doubt crossed those golden eyes, subtle but there.
Erevan inhaled sharply, shoulders tightening, knees weak, heart hammering in uneven beats. He was here, in the center of the circle, exposed, and yet… something inside him had shifted. He was no longer the boy who stumbled and failed. Something dark, something dangerous, stirred beneath his skin.
And the gallery, the instructors, the students—they felt it.
Every eye, every spirit, every rune etched into the white stone pivoted toward him as the silence stretched, thick and expectant. His palms were slick, his knees trembling, yet the pulse in his chest—the heartbeat not entirely his own—was steady, insistent, demanding.
They have mocked you enough. Show them. Let them taste the dark that resides in a boy they thought small. You can silence them all with a single exhale, Harrax whispered, curling through his bones like smoke.
Erevan's hands shook over the circle. The shadows under his feet stirred, curling outward with hesitant fingers. He tried to resist, tried to retreat into himself, but the energy coiled within him, impatient, insistent.
Cassian's knight and fire elemental moved in perfect synchronization, disciplined, deadly. The knight's blade gleamed with blinding precision. The elemental flared, molten sparks dancing in the air, heat rippling across the polished stone. Cassian's golden gaze tracked Erevan, calculating, predatorily cautious.
Erevan lifted his head. The gallery gasped. Fear had replaced amusement; whispers stilled. His eyes held no trace of the panic he had felt moments before—only a faint glimmer of something unrecognizable.
He let the words slip into the shadow in his chest, unspoken. Harrax surged forward eagerly, a tide of darkness shattering the dam. The sigil beneath him pulsed violently, jagged lines of black twisting across the white stone like veins. Shadows shot upward, grasping, curling into clawed fingers scraping against the edges of the containment wards.
Gasps erupted, then silence. Excitement curdled into raw fear. The instructors' eyes widened, students froze mid-breath, every gaze riveted. Even Cassian flinched instinctively, his spirits stiffening, the knight's shield raising defensively, the elemental bristling as if uncertain of the source of the new, alien threat.
Do you feel it, vessel? Their fear? Their awe? Let it feed you. Let it bloom. You are no one's shadow. You are mine, and they are all prey, Harrax purred, curling through Erevan's thoughts, his words curling into the marrow of his bones.
Erevan's muscles screamed in protest. His mind trembled, but some part of him—deep, hidden, shadowed—rejoiced. The whispers of power became a roaring anthem, humming through every nerve. His skin prickled, alive, vibrating with an intensity that terrified even as it exhilarated him.
Cassian's jaw tightened, golden eyes narrowing. What is that? he demanded, quietly, for himself, not the gallery. His spirits poised defensively. The knight's blade wavered. The elemental shrank back slightly, its flames dimmed in the presence of the anomaly.
The gallery murmured, confusion and fear tangled in their voices. The word spread silently, an unfamiliar, electric sensation: Anomaly.
Master Deymour slammed his staff against the stone floor. The wards flared, stretching at the edges, quivering under energy that had no classification, no precedent, no name. The match is over! Contain the energy!
Erevan gasped, staggering. The shadows recoiled slightly at Harrax's discretion, leaving him trembling in the center of the arena. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. His lungs burned, each inhale tasting of smoke and cold stone. Students stared, pale and wide-eyed. Whispers hung like a shroud in the air.
Cassian did not advance. He simply observed, suspicion etched into every line of his face, awe tempered by caution.
Harrax's chuckle slithered through Erevan's mind, intimate and terrifying. They have seen. They will never forget. And neither will you. This is your truth, vessel. Embrace it, or be devoured by the lie you once hid behind.
Erevan pressed his palms to his ears, shaking, legs trembling, heart hammering as if it might burst through his chest. The gallery's eyes burned into him. Somewhere in that gaze, he knew he had crossed a threshold.
The word echoed in his mind, branded into memory: Anomaly.
It was not an insult. It was recognition. And it terrified him.
He stumbled from the arena, unsteady, each step a protest of muscle and exhaustion. Sweat plastered hair to his forehead. Lungs screamed for air. Yet beneath the dread, something unfamiliar glimmered: undeniable, alive power.
Harrax purred in triumph, curling around his thoughts like smoke in a cold room. They have seen. They will never forget. And neither will you. This is your truth, vessel.
Erevan caught his reflection in the polished stone along the arena's edge. His eyes, wide, hollow, shadowed with revelation, stared back. A flicker of understanding passed through him. There was no turning back.
The boy who had stumbled, who had failed, who had hidden—he was gone.
What remained was something else. Something dangerous. Something hungry. Something that would not be ignored.