The Academy had always hummed with whispers, soft susurrations that slipped through stone corridors like water through cracks. Usually, they were harmless—careless gossip, ambitious murmurs—but today, the words felt sharper, honed, deliberate. Every syllable seemed like a blade, slicing at him from every side.
Erevan felt it pressing in, behind him in lecture halls, curling along the stone arches of the corridors, drifting faintly even across the dining commons. He no longer dared to sit there.
It was not the old, careless mockery, though some of that lingered. This was different. This was suspicion, gnawing and delicate, clinging like a shadow that refused to let go.
The duel had marked him. It had shredded the fragile invisibility he once carried like a cloak. Every glance he caught now brimmed with questions he could not answer. Students leaned away, murmuring under their breath. Instructors lingered too long when addressing him, polite but wary, as if speaking to a stranger they could not name.
And somewhere, coiled in the back of his mind, Harrax stirred. His voice slithered like silk over a knife's edge.
Look at them. Look how quickly they turn. A few shreds of shadow, a flicker of my presence, and they cower. Do you see, vessel? You are no longer invisible.
Erevan clenched his fists inside the sleeves of his robe, keeping his gaze lowered. He quickened his pace, the echo of his footsteps bouncing harshly off the stone.
I didn't want them to see, he muttered, voice swallowed by the arches.
Oh, but you did, Harrax purred, slow and cruel. Why else would you let me bleed through? You wanted silence. You wanted their eyes wide with awe. You wanted Cassian still for once.
Cassian. The golden-haired prodigy. Erevan's stomach twisted. He had caught that subtle flicker in the boy's golden eyes in the arena, a hesitation that was brief and hot before fear settled in. Cassian's gaze would linger; if he suspected, he would pry, no rest until the truth was exposed.
Ahead, the great oak doors of the library loomed. Tall, imposing, yet promising refuge from every pair of eyes. Erevan slipped inside, inhaling the comforting scent of aged parchment and dust. Here, the hush was thick, almost protective, though even the library could not completely shield him from prying glances. Students turned away politely, whispering just low enough to make sure he heard.
He ducked into a shadowed alcove between towering shelves. The air was cooler here, scented faintly of old ink and wax. Silence wrapped around him like a cocoon, though it could not touch the storm beneath his skin.
He sank into a chair, exhaustion dragging at his shoulders, and stared at the blank page of his open notebook. His quill hovered uselessly above it. Thoughts tumbled like stones, incoherent, chaotic, uncatchable. The murmurs outside, the instructors' words, the memory of the arena—they crowded his mind. And, always, Harrax.
You think hiding here will change their gaze? the voice coiled, lazy, curling like smoke around his thoughts. The library cannot silence truth. You are mine, and they sense it. Better to accept. Better to grow.
I'm not yours, Erevan whispered, voice quavering. His palm pressed against the page, damp with sweat, as if it might anchor him. I never asked for this.
You begged for it, Harrax replied, laughter threading through the words, faint but sharp. On the night you drew that circle in desperation, you called. And I came. Who else answered? No spirit. No guardian. Only me. And yet you resist.
Erevan pulled his hand back, almost recoiling from the notebook, as if it might accuse him of failure. Breath shallow, jagged. Heart hammering, thick in his chest.
A shuffle of footsteps broke the spiral of thought. He stiffened. At the end of the aisle, Aria appeared, balancing a precarious stack of tomes. Her violet eyes widened, betraying just enough surprise. Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words neither dared speak.
Erevan, she said at last, gentle yet uncertain.
He lowered his gaze, suddenly aware of the disheveled state—the dark rings under his eyes, ink smudges staining his fingers, the robe hanging loose from restless nights. Aria, he murmured, the word almost slipping past him unbidden.
She placed her books on the table, stepping closer, gaze soft but scanning, searching.
I saw what happened in the arena, she said quietly. Everyone did. But… I wanted to ask if you're alright.
A bitter laugh clawed at his throat. He swallowed it. That was Aria—kindness wrapped in caution. Yet he noticed the hesitation in her eyes, faint, unspoken unease, not fear.
I'm fine, he said flatly, snapping the notebook closed, hands trembling slightly.
Her brow furrowed, voice gentle, probing. Erevan, that wasn't like any summoning I've ever seen. The System couldn't even—
Don't, he cut in sharply, voice rougher than intended. She blinked. For a fleeting moment he wished he could retract the words, but Harrax's laughter thrummed in his skull, mocking restraint.
I don't want to talk about it, he finally said, trying to steady himself.
For a moment, silence fell, thick and heavy. Only the faint rustle of pages echoed as students moved elsewhere. Harrax coiled around his thoughts, whispering dark amusement. She would pity you, vessel, it said, smelling the shadow clinging to him, calling it sorrow.
Aria took a step back, brushing hands lightly against the edges of her books. Alright, she said softly. But… if something's wrong, you can come to me.
Erevan wanted to laugh bitterly at the impossibility. If only she knew the truth—the whispering shadow in his mind, the hunger curling through every thought, the laughter that had no source. Instead, he only nodded, avoiding her gaze. She lingered a moment, then turned and left.
The corridors outside felt narrower, pressing in. The whispers followed, sharper, more precise. Words floated just beyond hearing—anomaly, dangerous, cursed. Every step weighed heavy, echoing in the chambers of his chest, a reminder that nothing would ever be the same.
The corridors felt heavier now, the shadows stretching longer, drawn like fingers toward him. Every stone seemed to press against his chest as if the Academy itself was aware of what he carried. Footsteps echoed, hollow and accusing. The whispers, once distant, were now sharp, precise, slicing the air around him.
Anomaly… dangerous… cursed…
Each word pressed like ice against his skin. Erevan kept his head down, shoulders hunched, robe clinging damply from sweat. Even the warded lights overhead seemed dimmer, flickering slightly, as though hesitant to shine fully on him.
He rounded a corner and saw the tall doors of the instructors' chamber before him. The pulse in his chest tightened into a knot. His feet moved automatically, each step dragging against the weight of dread.
Inside, the chamber smelled faintly of candle wax and old parchment. Stone walls echoed every sound, amplifying the quiet menace of authority. A semicircle of the Academy's high-tier mentors faced him, seated like judges in some ancient tribunal.
At the center, Master Deymour stood, staff pressed lightly against the floor, wards pulsing faintly like a heartbeat of restrained light. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned Erevan as though he were already measured, weighed, and found wanting. Behind him, two other instructors lingered, pens poised, spirits coiled and ready, observing every twitch, every falter, every involuntary breath.
Erevan, Deymour's voice cut the stillness, calm but razor-edged. What occurred in the duel was not sanctioned. The entity you called does not match any classification in our records. For your safety, and that of the Academy, we must understand what you have bound.
Erevan's throat tightened. Words stuck like wet paper. How could he explain that he had drawn a forbidden circle in desperation? That he had summoned Harrax—a being with no name, no classification, no loyalty but to him? Every inhale was shared with the shadow now coiled inside his chest, every heartbeat echoed with Harrax's cruel, triumphant laughter.
I— His voice cracked, hoarse and fragile. It was a mistake. I didn't mean for it to happen.
Deymour's gaze narrowed, measuring, unrelenting. The wards along the floor flickered, uncertain under the strain of what had been unleashed. A mistake that nearly breached containment wards designed to withstand high-tier spirits?
I… I don't know what it was, Erevan whispered, hands trembling against his thighs, voice a small, pitiful sound even to him.
The other instructors exchanged glances, unease flickering in their eyes. Pens scratched across parchment, notes made in careful precision. Fear, confusion, and concern mingled in their expressions, but they did not understand. They could not. And Harrax, coiled around the edges of his nerves, purred in delight.
Let them pry, the shadow whispered, curling through every frayed corner of thought. Let them scratch at the surface. They will find nothing they can name. And the deeper they dig, the more they will fear. You are mine, vessel. No scholar, no council, no golden boy can take you from me.
Deymour's voice came down like stone, echoing in the chamber. Until further notice, you are restricted from dueling. You will attend monitoring sessions twice weekly. If we cannot identify your summon, we may have to—seek outside consultation.
The words fell like hammers. Outside consultation. Exposure. Council. Scholars dissecting anomalies as if they were nothing more than specimens. The panic clawed at his chest, twisting his stomach. His pulse throbbed in his temples, every nerve screaming. Harrax's laughter filled the empty spaces of his mind, triumphant, cruel, intimate.
Yes… the shadow purred softly. Let them dig. They will find nothing. You are mine. No one can claim you.
Erevan bowed his head, trembling. Yes, Master, he whispered, the words barely audible, heavier than a boulder on his chest. Dismissed, he stumbled from the chamber, air stolen from his lungs, legs unsteady.
Outside, the night air hit like a cold blade. The towers of Aetherline loomed overhead, their wardlights pulsing faintly against the darkness. He sank onto the stone steps, dragging hands over his face. Sweat and ash clung to his skin. His breaths were shallow, jagged, each inhale a reminder of what had been seen, what had been exposed.
You can't hide anymore, Harrax whispered, velvet and intimate, curling around his thoughts, brushing against his spine. The truth bleeds through no matter how you clutch at silence. Better to embrace it. Better to learn.
Erevan closed his eyes, every muscle taut, every heartbeat a drum of both dread and exhilaration. For the first time since arriving at the Academy, he wished he had never come. The contract burned in his chest like a second heart, relentless, unforgiving. The anomaly was no longer secret, no longer a whisper only he could hear. It was his reality.
In the darkness beyond the warded lights, faint energies shimmered, pulsing as though the Academy itself recognized what had been brought into its heart. Night held a quiet, reverent attention, and somewhere in the shadows, a soundless laugh curled alongside him. Harrax, triumphant, coiled, whispering promises of power and chaos.
Erevan trembled, tethered to the dark, yet alive with it. He could not turn back. He would never return to the boy who walked silently, unseen, powerless.
He was no longer invisible.
He was not just seen.
He was marked.