The summons came with the first gray light of dawn, a knock that cracked sharply against Erevan's dormitory door.
He hadn't slept. Not really. Rain had battered the windows all night, each drop a tiny drum against his skull. Dreams had been fitful, darkened with whispers that slithered through his mind, curling around his thoughts like smoke.
Did you see him in the courtyard? Harrax's voice murmured, silk over steel, coiling in his skull. Cassian's eyes lingered longer than polite curiosity allows. He smells the shadow on you. He will not rest.
Erevan shivered, tugging the thin blanket tighter around his shoulders, but the chill that had seeped into his bones refused to relent. When the knock came again, more insistent this time, he felt almost grateful for the interruption. Almost.
Two wardens waited in the corridor, standing statuesque and still. Their uniforms were flawless, polished boots gleaming faintly in the pale morning light. Faces carved from stone, betraying nothing.
"Erevan Vale," one said, voice crisp, unwavering. "The Council requires your presence."
His hands trembled as he fumbled with the ties of his tunic. Satchel heavy with books he barely touched, yet lighter than the weight pressing on his chest. He followed silently, each echoing step down the corridor like a drumbeat marking his exposure.
Students peered from their doors, pale, wary. Eyes sharp, dissecting him in silence. Some whispered behind cupped hands, others simply watched, their attention lingering longer than politeness allowed. Every glance felt like a needle, threading through him, weighing him down.
Stone walls glistened faintly with the residue of rain, and the air carried the chill tang of wet stone, candle wax, and parchment. Erevan's pulse thumped, relentless, each beat a hammering reminder that he was being watched. Judged. Measured.
The Council chambers rose ahead, hidden behind massive ironwood doors inlaid with faintly glowing runes. Few students ever entered these halls. Erevan had never been summoned here. Not truly.
The wardens pushed the doors open, and the chill of the room hit him immediately, a cold that sank past his skin and into his chest.
It was circular, lined with shelves overflowing with tomes, relics, and artifacts, each humming faintly with its own contained magic. A dark stone table, etched with twisting veins of faintly glowing runes, dominated the center. Around it sat the senior instructors and Council members, their robes severe, faces pale, eyes sharp as knives.
Cassian's master was among them, expression cold and calculating. The scrutiny pressed on Erevan like physical weight, each glance a scalpel carving away his confidence.
He froze in the doorway, clutching his satchel as though it might shield him. The wards thrummed softly, a heartbeat against his chest, mirroring the frantic pace of his own pulse.
"Erevan Vale," intoned Master Theron, silver hair falling perfectly over broad shoulders, voice steady, unyielding, cold as stone. "You stand before us to answer questions concerning the anomaly that manifested during your duel."
Erevan's throat constricted. "I told the instructors already," he whispered, voice thin, cracking. "I don't know what it was."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the Council. Theron's piercing eyes narrowed, scanning him as if weighing every molecule of his being.
"The System failed to register the manifestation," Theron continued slowly. "Our wards recorded a presence that does not align with any known spirit. The duel destabilized protections older than this academy. Do you understand the gravity of this?"
Erevan swallowed hard. Chest tightening, ribs aching from the tension coiling inside him. "I—I didn't mean for it to happen," he whispered, voice small and fragile.
"Intent matters little," Mistress Kaelen interjected sharply, hawkish eyes glinting. "Power manifests regardless of will. If you are host to something unbound, you are a danger—not only to yourself but to every soul within these walls."
The words struck him like iron. He pressed his hands to his knees, trying to still the tremor that threatened to betray him. Behind his thoughts, Harrax stirred, laughter curling around the edges of his mind, soaking every syllable in dark amusement.
See how they tremble, the spirit whispered, velvet and venom. See how swiftly they brand you a monster. Their chains are already forged.
"I don't know what bound itself to me," Erevan said, desperation cracking his voice. "I don't know why. But I've done nothing wrong. Please… I just want to study, to—"
"To pretend you are ordinary?" Mistress Kaelen cut through the plea, sharp as a blade. "Do not insult us with such pleas."
Master Theron raised a hand, silencing the room. "The Council has reached a decision. Until this matter is resolved, you are forbidden from unsupervised training or dueling. Wards will be placed upon your quarters to monitor disturbances. You will be observed. If further incidents occur…" His voice dropped, heavy with unspoken threat. "…We may take more drastic measures."
The words fell like chains tightening around him. Observed. Warded. Caged.
He tried to protest, but no sound came. His chest heaved, lungs burning. The eyes around him, so cold, so sharp, weighed down on him.
"Do you understand?" Theron's gaze bored into him.
Erevan forced a trembling nod.
"Then you are dismissed."
The wardens escorted him back through the corridors, each echoing footstep magnifying the dread that pressed like a living thing against his chest. The halls were quiet, but the silence was heavy with suspicion, the kind that crawls over skin and settles in the stomach.
Students peeked from doors and corners, whispers trailing behind him like shadows. Eyes followed, lingering too long, and Erevan felt each glance like a finger tracing the outline of his mistakes. He kept his head down, satchel clutched to his chest like armor, but the weight of their scrutiny clung to him.
Rain dripped steadily from the eaves outside, splattering against the stone like faint tick marks counting down his freedom. His cloak was soaked through, plastered to his skin, but the cold was nothing compared to the heat crawling up his spine. Every heartbeat felt too loud.
Chains are not merely iron and stone, Harrax murmured, silk and venom curling around his thoughts. They are fear, curiosity, suspicion. Feel it. Taste the scent of your own unraveling.
Erevan pressed his palms to his face, trembling. He had hoped that retreating, keeping quiet, might shield him. But silence was no longer a luxury afforded to him. Harrax's laughter slithered through his skull, coiling, teasing, reminding him of every glance, every half-smile of doubt from instructors and students alike.
By the time he reached his dormitory, magisters were already at work. Fingers traced intricate sigils into the stone walls around his door. Lines of light sank into the stone, glowing softly before pulsing with restrained power, a heartbeat imposed upon the room. The air thickened, heavy with hum and ozone, as if the atmosphere itself was an agent of control.
One magister glanced up briefly, her eyes sharp and unyielding. "Do not attempt to breach them," she said flatly. "They will respond swiftly. They are not gentle."
And then she was gone, leaving Erevan in a space that felt smaller than it had before. The wards pulsed softly, rhythmically, like the universe's own judgment. He sank onto his cot, hands over his ears, but Harrax's amusement seeped in, curling into every crack.
They fear you, Harrax purred. Chains, cages, restrictions—everything they place, they fear. You are the anomaly that gnaws at their order. They will not rest until you are tamed, until you are nothing but a shadow in their halls.
"Stop," Erevan rasped, voice raw, trembling.
But the wards throbbed with the pulse of the room, and Harrax's laughter filled every corner. He closed his eyes, teeth clenching, trying to steady the tremor in his limbs. This had not been how he imagined life at the academy. Not like this. Every step, every breath, scrutinized. His sanctuary invaded by light and observation.
A soft knock at the door startled him, hesitant, gentle—human. Not the sharp, deliberate authority of the wardens, not the weight of the Council's summons.
"Erevan?"
Aria.
He hesitated, wondering if the wards would even allow her presence. But when he reached for the latch, the door swung open easily. She stepped inside with careful, almost fragile movements. Her eyes found his, searching, tentative, soft—a tether to a reality outside this suffocating pressure.
"I heard," she said quietly, voice carrying over the soft pulse of the wards.
Erevan shook his head, bitter. "Of course you did. Everyone heard."
She moved closer, hands brushing the edge of his desk, grounding and human. "Erevan… I don't think you're dangerous. Not like they say. But you need to see how it looks from the other side. The duel, the thing that appeared—it frightened people. It frightened me."
Erevan slumped onto the cot, shoulders weighted with exposure. "I didn't ask for it," he whispered. "I didn't want any of this."
"I know," Aria replied softly, though unease lingered in her violet eyes. "I know you didn't. But you have to be careful. Don't give them more reason to fear you than they already have. Not yet."
Her words cut like cold water—but also tethered him to something human, something real outside the wards and whispers. Her eyes lingered, searching for a reaction, then she nodded and stepped back toward the door. The wards flared faintly as it shut, the room colder, quieter, pressing in from all sides.
Alone again, Erevan sank back onto his cot. Hands trembled, stomach coiled with tension. Harrax's whispers returned, curling, teasing, dragging him deeper into panic.
Even she recoils, the spirit murmured, velvet and sharp. The kind one senses the shadow. The golden boy circles, the masters wait, and you—vessel—you are the anomaly they cannot name. How long before they turn fully against you? How long before you are nothing but chains and whispers?
Erevan pressed his face into his hands, teeth gritting, as if speaking aloud could repel the shadow in his mind. "Stop," he rasped. Voice barely audible, raw with exhaustion.
The wards pulsed in rhythm with his own heartbeat, a constant, inescapable reminder: contained. Observed. On the verge of exposure. Harrax's laughter slithered through every thought, echoing in the dark until sleep, fragile and fleeting, finally claimed him—a brief mercy in a night that would not grant peace.
And somewhere in the folds of darkness curling around him, he knew bitterly: the academy had him. The Council had him. Harrax had him. And the world outside would never know him as he once hoped.
By the time Erevan trudged back to his dormitory, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the air was still heavy, saturated with the metallic tang of wet stone and ozone. Each footstep on the slick floor echoed like a warning. He pulled his cloak tighter, shivering, though it was less the cold that cut into his skin and more the weight of the Council's judgment pressing on his shoulders.
Magisters had already begun their work, fingers tracing intricate sigils into the walls. Lines of light glimmered faintly, sinking into the stone before pulsing gently, almost like a heartbeat imposed upon the room itself. The hum of contained power vibrated under his fingertips, as if the air itself was aware of his presence, watching, calculating.
One magister paused mid-sigil and glanced at him, her gaze cold and unyielding. "Do not attempt to breach them," she warned flatly. "They will respond swiftly. They are not gentle."
And then she left. Erevan sank to the cot, chest heaving. The room had shrunk, compressed by wards and expectation, and the soft pulsing of the sigils was a metronome counting down his freedom. He pressed his palms to his ears, hoping to block the pressure, but Harrax's laughter slipped through every crack.
They fear you, the spirit murmured, silk and venom entwined. Chains, cages, restrictions—everything they place, they fear. You are the anomaly that gnaws at their order. They will not rest until you are tamed.
"Stop," Erevan whispered, voice trembling.
The wards throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. He could feel them watching, containing, measuring. Each breath was a reminder: he was a specimen, displayed in the cage of his own dormitory.
A hesitant knock at the door startled him, soft and human, not sharp and commanding like the wardens.
"Erevan?"
Aria.
For a moment, he froze, unsure if the wards would even allow her through. But when he reached for the latch, the door opened smoothly. She stepped inside, careful, almost fragile, her violet eyes scanning his face, searching for something he did not know how to give.
"I heard," she said quietly, voice threading through the low hum of the wards.
He shook his head bitterly. "Of course you did. Everyone heard."
She moved closer, hands resting lightly on his desk, grounding, human. "Erevan… I don't think you're dangerous. Not like they say. But you need to see how it looks from the other side. The duel, the thing that appeared—it frightened people. It frightened me."
Erevan slumped onto the cot, shoulders heavy. "I didn't ask for it," he whispered. "I didn't want any of this."
"I know," Aria replied softly, unease flickering in her eyes. "But you have to be careful. Don't give them more reason to fear you than they already have. Not yet."
Her presence was a tether to reality, a small reminder that someone outside the scrutiny still cared. Her gaze lingered on his face for a heartbeat longer, searching for a sign of understanding, of resistance, then she nodded and stepped back. The wards pulsed faintly as the door closed, and silence descended once more, heavier than before.
Alone, Erevan pressed his face into his hands, teeth gritting against the tremor that wracked his limbs. Harrax's voice curled through his thoughts, teasing, relentless.
Even she recoils, the spirit murmured. The kind one senses the shadow in you. The golden boy circles, the masters wait, and you—vessel—you are the anomaly they cannot name. How long before they turn fully against you? How long before you are nothing but chains and whispers?
"Stop," he rasped, voice raw.
The wards pulsed in rhythm with his own heartbeat, a constant reminder that he was contained, observed, trapped. Harrax's laughter swelled, threading shadows into every corner of the room, twisting and flickering in the dim glow.
Sleep finally came, hesitant and fragile, a small mercy after the storm of the morning. He lay curled on the cot, arms wrapped around himself, listening to the soft thrum of the wards. Every instinct screamed alert, but exhaustion stole him in moments, and even Harrax's whispers became dulled, muffled behind the fragile curtain of unconsciousness.
And somewhere deep in the folds of darkness that clung to him, Erevan knew bitterly: the academy had him. The Council had him. Harrax had him. And the world beyond these stone walls would never know him as he had once hoped.