The wards never truly slept.
Even in the dim pre-dawn light, when the academy's corridors were empty and the stone walls hadn't yet absorbed the stirrings of students, their presence hummed. Subtle. Insistent. Like a string pulled too tight, quivering beneath the surface. To anyone else, it would have been nothing more than background noise. But Erevan Vale felt it in every nerve, every pulse of his chest. Something inside the wards had shifted. Something… had cracked.
He lay tangled in his blankets, hair mussed from hours of restless sleep, staring at the faint fissure glowing across the rune nearest his desk. A hairline fracture in glass. Impossible to ignore once noticed. And yet, it had his name written across it, daring him to remember.
I did that.
The thought pressed on him like ironwood doors, cold and heavy. His hand throbbed where the wards had burned him the night before, the raw sting still lingering in his bones. The syllables he had whispered—the strange, alien chant—left a rasp in his throat. And yet beneath the exhaustion simmered something dangerously intoxicating. He had touched the wards. He had made them bleed.
A shadow slid across the corner of the room, though no light had moved.
"Look how they scurry," Harrax's voice slithered through his skull, soft and curling, serpentine. "Their precious cage tasted your breath and split. Already their hands tremble, their tongues whisper of failure. They feel it, boy. They feel you."
Erevan pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, desperate for quiet. For anything other than the spirit crawling in his skull.
"Stop," he muttered, voice hoarse. "I didn't… I wasn't… it was a mistake."
Harrax laughed, low, indulgent, scraping against his nerves like velvet over stone.
"A mistake that tasted sweet on your tongue. Do not lie to yourself, Erevan Vale. You want more."
Erevan swallowed. He did not want more. He wanted safety. Invisibility. Solitude. And yet… the memory of raw power pulsing through his veins sang in the back of his mind. Alive. Irresistible. Dangerous.
He shifted on the cot, blankets twisting around him. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck, and he could almost feel the wards vibrating beneath his skin, as if aware of his lingering thoughts.
"You felt it, didn't you?" Harrax whispered, silk and menace entwined. "Power humming in your bones. A taste. A whisper of what could be yours. They fear it. And they should."
Erevan's chest tightened. He wanted to close his eyes and vanish, to pretend none of it had happened. But he couldn't ignore the ember coiling in his chest. It was small, fragile… and it burned.
It's not gone.
A long, shuddering breath escaped him. He rolled onto his side, staring at the ceiling, the faint crack in the rune glowing like a stubborn scar. And in the stillness of the pre-dawn hour, the whispering of the spirit slithered closer, intimate, coaxing, hungry.
"It remembers you," Harrax breathed. "And so do I."
Erevan clenched his fists, nails digging crescent shapes into his palms. He shivered, part fear, part anticipation. The night stretched before him, long, silent, yet alive. The wards had shifted. Something had changed. And deep inside, in the tangled mix of dread and thrill, he wanted to see how far it could go.
The sudden rattling at the door made Erevan flinch. His pulse spiked, every nerve screaming.
A knock followed—sharp, deliberate.
"Vale," came Mistress Kaelen's voice, cold and precise. "Stand back. The ward-masters will enter."
Erevan's stomach lurched. The wards flared as if sensing the intrusion, lines of light pulsing along the floor and walls, humming against the stone. They braced, tense and alert, like a caged animal expecting the strike.
The door shifted slowly, reluctantly, and four figures stepped inside. Robes trimmed in silver, faces taut with suspicion. Their eyes scanned the chamber like predators sizing prey. The air shimmered faintly as their whispered incantations brushed against the wards.
Erevan shrank into himself, shrinking further with each precise movement of his fingers, each slight twitch of his shoulder magnified under their gaze.
"What happened here?" one demanded, voice sharp.
"I—I don't know," Erevan stammered, words trembling. "I woke and saw it like that."
A gloved hand traced the crack in the rune, fingertips brushing the faint fissure glowing like dying embers. The magister's eyes narrowed, lips moving in the old tongue.
"Something pressed against them from within," she muttered, almost to herself.
Erevan's throat felt raw. Do they believe me? Fear tightened his chest, coiling around his ribs. He lowered his gaze, palms pressed to his knees as if he could somehow fold himself into nothingness.
Mistress Kaelen's hawk-like stare cut through him. "You claim ignorance?"
"Yes," he whispered, fragile as glass. "I swear it."
The ward-masters murmured more words in the old tongue, the incantations resonating with the rune. The fissure shimmered, threads of magical energy weaving themselves back together. Almost invisible now, the scar was gone to casual eyes—but to Erevan, it remained vivid, etched in memory. The wards hummed deeper, steady, yet beneath the surface lingered a faint echo of strain, a ghost of the pressure they had felt.
Mistress Kaelen straightened, her voice flat, cold. "You will be watched more closely. Any further disturbances, and you will be relocated to containment."
Containment. The word fell like a stone into his chest, scraping raw against his heart.
When the magisters departed, the wards flared almost defiantly, their song sharp, warning, alive. Erevan sank back onto the cot, shoulders trembling, sweat beading along his hairline.
"They suspect," Harrax purred, voice soft and teasing, curling around his mind. "Of course they do. They are not fools. But suspicion alone is smoke. And you, boy—you are fire. What will you do when their net tightens? Lie still, like prey? Or strike, as predator?"
"I didn't mean for it to happen," Erevan whispered, voice cracking. "I just… I just wanted to feel something. To not be powerless."
"And you did feel," Harrax pressed, almost tender. "Power sang through your bones. The wards bent before you. Do not deny it."
Erevan closed his eyes. Shame burned in his cheeks. Yet beneath the dread, beneath the self-reproach, the thrill hummed faintly. Even now, he wanted to reach again, to push further, to see how far the fissure could spread.
Outside, the day had begun. Students whispered in the corridors, low murmurs pressing against his temples like fog. Rumors of the fractured wards had spread, twisting with each retelling—dangerous, cursed, uncanny. Some swore dark shapes wriggled behind his dormitory windows. Others whispered that the Council had already plotted his expulsion.
Erevan walked the halls hunched, books clutched to his chest, the weight of unseen eyes pressing from every angle. Each whisper seemed to curl into Harrax's voice inside his skull.
"Do they think they can cage you, boy? Smoke and shadows, they feel your power, and they tremble. Do you hear it? Do you taste it?"
Erevan swallowed, forcing his mind to the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Just survive today. Just survive.
The ember of power lingered in his chest, stubborn and insistent, the memory of the wards' strain echoing in every nerve.
By midday, the corridors of the academy hummed with whispers, low and ceaseless, curling around Erevan like smoke. Every glance from passing students cut him sharply—some with mockery, some with unease, others with something darker: fear.
He kept his shoulders tight, books pressed to his chest, trying to shrink into the shadows, to make himself small. But no matter how fast he moved, he could feel eyes tracking him, voices following him, and a pulse of awareness, subtle but electric, that the wards themselves had left behind.
The dining hall offered little relief. Hundreds of students murmured and laughed, but the air around him stiffened when he approached a distant corner. Attention brushed against him invisibly, currents of observation that prickled his skin.
He forced himself to sit, tray in hand, pressing down on a slice of bread. It tasted of ash and iron, mundane and impossibly dull against the hum of power still lingering in his veins.
Across the hall, like a predator in plain sight, Cassian leaned against a bench, posture perfect, uniform immaculate. Every glance he threw Erevan's way was deliberate, measured, heavy with implication.
He knew. Cassian knew. And the knowledge alone twisted Erevan's stomach into tight knots.
Erevan forced his gaze to the bread. Do I fight? Or pretend he doesn't exist?
Afternoon brought no comfort. The sky darkened, a thin ribbon of clouds blotting the sun. The courtyard stretched wide, too exposed. He moved quickly, hunched, arms wrapped around his books, every step a shield.
"Erevan," a soft voice called, halting him in place.
He froze.
Aria. She stepped from the shadows of an archway, tentative, careful, holding her books close as if they could protect her. Her eyes searched his face, warm but wary.
"I heard about the wards," she murmured.
Erevan's chest tightened. "It wasn't me," he blurted, voice too quick, too tight. "I swear, Aria, it wasn't."
Her gaze softened, but doubt flickered there despite the warmth. "I want to believe you," she said quietly. "But people are frightened. Even the instructors don't know what's happening. And… you look different. Tired. Like something's eating at you."
He swallowed, forcing a nod. "I'm fine," he whispered, the lie sliding down his throat like stones.
"You're not," she countered, almost pleading. "Please, Erevan. Whatever it is—don't let it consume you. Promise me."
Promise. The word struck him cold. How could he promise anything when the ember inside him pulsed, still humming with the memory of the wards' power? Still whispering of more. He nodded anyway. It was all he could offer.
Aria lingered a moment longer, concern etching her brow, then sighed softly. "Just… be careful." She turned and walked away, footsteps echoing along the stone, leaving a hollow ache in his chest.
Shadows stretched across the courtyard, curling at his feet. Harrax's laughter rippled in his mind, low and delighted.
"Even she recoils, boy. The kind one tastes the rot and draws back. How long before she speaks against you? How long before the golden boy convinces her you are his shadow?"
As evening approached, Erevan returned to his dorm. The scar in the rune was gone to anyone's eye, healed by the wards' magic, but to him it lingered—vivid, insistent, alive.
He traced the faint pulse above his desk, fingertips hovering, feeling the echo of the wards' song.
"It remembers you," Harrax whispered, silk-soft, coaxing. "It waits for your touch again. As do I."
Erevan's fingers trembled. Exhaustion pressed down like a lead blanket, shame curling through his chest like a dark vine. Yet beneath it, beneath the guilt, there was a dangerous, thrilling warmth.
Power had answered him once, bending to his touch, and the memory hummed in every nerve. He pulled back finally, curling into himself on the cot. Tears burned unspent in his eyes, but his gaze drifted again to the rune.
The ember inside him glowed hotter now—fierce, unrelenting, impossible to ignore.
It was a warning.
It was a promise.
And deep inside, Erevan felt something else—something darker, something more terrifying than the Council's scrutiny, Cassian's calculating gaze, or even Harrax's relentless whispers.
Desire.
Desire for the power he had touched. Desire for the thrill of bending what no one else could.
The wards hummed softly. Waiting.
And so did he.