The candlelight trembled again that night. It wasn't the wind — the window was shut tight, the air heavy and still. The flame bent sideways as if drawn by something unseen, shadows crawling along the walls in uneven rhythm.
Ardan Vale sat at his desk, one hand pressed to his temple. His breath came slow, deliberate, as if controlling it were the only thing keeping him grounded.
The headaches had returned.
They always came when he pushed the limits of his power — when the boundary between past and present blurred too sharply.
He could hear echoes .Laughter from long-dead generals. The roar of collapsing fortresses. Lyra's last breath — the way her voice broke when she said his name as the blade struck her back.
He forced his eyes open, staring down at the sigil he'd drawn on parchment. The ink shimmered faintly with faint silver light, reacting to his pulse.The Balance Sigil.
The price of emotion was power.The price of power was sanity.
He whispered, "Still imperfect."
He tried again — bleeding a thin line of mana through his fingertips. The sigil pulsed once, and then —— the room tilted.
His mind was suddenly elsewhere.
Stone walls. A burning city. The scent of ash and blood.He saw himself older again — thirty-six, armor cracked, sword dripping red. The empire burning behind him. And before him — her, bleeding out in his arms.
"Ardan…" she whispered."Don't," he'd said, even then. "Don't speak. You'll waste your breath.""Then listen," she'd smiled faintly. "You could've been more than this."
Then she went still.
The memory dissolved as he slammed back into the present — choking on air, sweat running cold down his neck.
He stared at the sigil, breathing hard. It was still glowing.He'd triggered a memory fragment — a psychic echo from his past life.
So this is the price, he thought grimly. The stronger I grow, the thinner the wall between now and then.
Morning came gray and bitter.Rain slicked the courtyard stones, turning the academy's grandeur into a wash of muted gold and gray.
Ardan moved mechanically through his routine — bathing, dressing, masking the tremor in his hands.The reflection in the mirror looked composed, but his eyes were bloodshot, haunted.
Lyra noticed immediately when she found him in the lecture hall."Ardan," she said quietly, sliding into the seat beside him. "You look like death."
"I've been better."
"You've also been worse," she said softly. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me."
He met her gaze. For a heartbeat, he almost told her — about the visions, the bleeding timelines, the way the past refused to stay buried.But he didn't.If she knew what he really was, she'd either pity him or fear him. He could afford neither.
Instead, he said, "Just overworked."
Lyra frowned but didn't press. Instead, she reached into her satchel and handed him a small vial."Here," she said. "Focus draught. It'll help with the headaches."
He took it, fingers brushing hers. "You always seem to know what I need."
She smiled faintly. "That's because you never ask."
He pocketed the vial. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," she said. "Just take care of yourself."
He wanted to. Gods, he wanted to. But care was a luxury he couldn't afford.
That afternoon, the academy's central arena roared with activity.The Field Evaluations had begun.
Students stood in a massive coliseum surrounded by faculty and observers. Above, banners hung heavy in the damp air — each representing a noble house or division of the Empire's magical corps. The smell of ozone and wet stone filled the arena as lightning spells cracked across the practice grounds.
Ardan stood among the participants, calm and silent.
Cael Dornhart was there too — confident, surrounded by sycophants.When their eyes met across the arena, Cael nodded faintly.The first piece, Ardan thought. Still falling into place.
"Pairing Number Forty-Two," the announcer called. "Ardan Vale versus Malric Verden."
Malric — a brute in noble silk. A fire mage known more for cruelty than talent.Perfect.
The duel began.Flames burst toward Ardan — a wide, reckless attack meant to intimidate. He sidestepped, unfazed, tracing a small sigil in the air. Not his Balance Sigil — not yet — but a simple compression rune.
The ground cracked. A shockwave rippled outward, snuffing out Malric's flames and knocking him backward.
Gasps echoed through the stands. Ardan stood perfectly still, eyes unreadable.
Malric snarled and charged again, but Ardan had already turned away.He didn't need to win spectacularly. He just needed to win efficiently.
When the final whistle blew, Selric raised a brow from the judges' stand. "Controlled. Precise. Understated," he said. "Acceptable performance."
That was all Ardan wanted — acceptable. Nothing that drew suspicion.
But from the crowd, Lyra's quiet smile reached him anyway. Pride, not admiration — something gentler.And it shook him more than Malric's flames ever could.
That night, the rain returned.Ardan sat again before the sigil, but this time he didn't channel mana into it. He just stared at the ink lines, tracing them with his finger.
Balance. Detachment. Power.
He whispered, "And what if the cost isn't emotion? What if it's memory itself?"
Because every time he used the sigil now, something slipped. A smell, a face, a word.He couldn't recall the name of one of his old generals anymore — a man who had followed him for years. The name was just gone.
Power had a price. But this was theft — slow, methodical, consuming.
He wrote in his journal:The Balance Sigil does not simply suppress emotion. It devours connection. Each use removes not just feeling, but the anchor that gives it meaning. Memory decay proportional to activation intensity.
He paused.Then added: If I continue, I may lose more than pain. I may lose her.
He stared at that last line for a long time.
Then, with deliberate calm, he crossed it out.
The next morning, Lyra found him in the courtyard again.She tossed him a wrapped package — bread and smoked meat."You're impossible," she said lightly. "So I'm giving up trying to make you human."
He smirked. "Giving up suits you."
"Liar," she said. "You'd miss me if I did."
He didn't answer.Because he wasn't sure he wouldn't.
When she turned to leave, he called out quietly, "Lyra."
She stopped. "Yeah?"
He hesitated. Then — "Thank you. For staying."
Her smile was small, but real. "Always."
She walked away, cloak fluttering in the cold wind.And for the first time since his return, Ardan felt something almost unfamiliar — a warmth that wasn't strategy, wasn't calculation.
It terrified him.
That night, the sigil pulsed again beneath the floorboards — faintly, like a heartbeat.It was calling to him.
He didn't answer. Not yet.
Because for the first time, he wasn't sure whether using it would make him stronger — or erase the very thing anchoring him to this second life.
Outside, thunder rolled again over Varenhold.And far in the distance, beyond the city walls, something stirred — a whisper of the future shifting, as if history itself had noticed his interference.