Arlan's POV
The under-academy tunnels were a ghost town compared to the bustling infrastructure above. Arlan moved through them like a wraith, his new, soundless Blink carrying him from shadow to shadow. His senses, honed by months of absolute darkness, parsed the world in gradients of temperature, minute air currents, and the faint hum of distant mana circuits.
He found a maintenance locker. The academy-standard grey uniform inside was too clean, too bright. He took it anyway, using a focused, heatless tendril of Voidfire to carefully scorch and age the fabric, to scuff the boots. He smeared grime from the tunnel walls on his face and hands. The pristine student was a costume he could no longer wear. He needed to look like what he was: a survivor of the deep, forgotten places.
His first goal was information. How long had he been gone?
He emerged into a lesser-used service corridor near the Academy's central utilities. A public information screen flickered on a wall, displaying a news feed.
…PREPARATIONS FOR THE GRAND MELEE ENTER FINAL PHASE! scrolled the cheerful text over images of students training in sparkling arenas. ACADEMY SECURITY DRILL DECLARED A SUCCESS, CAMPUS RETURNS TO NORMAL OPERATIONS…
Normal operations. A lie so brazen it was almost admirable.
The date on the feed caught his eye.
He had been in the dark for three months.
The Grand Melee was in two days.
A cold calculation ran through his mind. Vance and the Accord would be in the final stages of their operation. Selene, Kaelen—had they escaped? Dorian, Mira, Fen? Were they captured, or had they gone to ground?
He needed to find his lance. But first, he needed to understand the new landscape. And for that, he needed to see the enemy.
He made his way towards the one place he knew would be a hub of activity, yet where a grimy maintenance worker would be invisible: the Melee staging grounds.
The Academy's central coliseum was a hive of controlled chaos. Teams of groundskeepers manicured the obstacle courses. Technicians calibrated shimmering barrier projectors. And students—his former peers—milled about in clusters, their faces alight with excitement, anxiety, or arrogant confidence. They were discussing tactics, last-minute skill refinements, and gossip.
He kept his head down, pushing a cart of discarded packing materials, his gaze missing nothing.
He saw Borin Emberheart, surrounded by his usual sycophants, boasting loudly about the "cleansing fire" he would bring to the event. The fool had no idea the real fire that was coming.
He saw members of other elite lances, their expressions focused. He saw professors overseeing preparations, their demeanors unreadable. Were they ignorant, or complicit?
Then he saw her.
Lyra Solara stood at the edge of the central sand field, alone. She wore a sleek, white-and-gold training suit, her silver hair tied back in a severe braid. She was observing the terrain, her stellar eyes scanning with detached analysis. She looked every inch the perfect, untouchable heiress and top student.
The glacial fury in Arlan's heart didn't boil over. It focused, becoming a single, diamond-hard point of intent aimed directly at her. He could feel the Shield Fragment in his core give a faint, sympathetic pulse. Negation. Breaking.
He wanted to Blink behind her right now. To drive his bone knife into the space between her shoulder blades. To watch the shock and betrayal flood her perfect features before the light left her eyes.
But that was the impulse of the beast in the dark. The killer he had become was more patient. Death was too simple for her. She had traded him for family and position. He would take both from her, and make her watch, before he took her life.
As if sensing the weight of his gaze, Lyra's head turned slightly. Her eyes swept over the service workers, paused for a fraction of a second on his grimy, downturned face, and moved on without recognition. To her, he was part of the scenery. Invisible.
He pushed his cart past, heading for a service entrance. As he did, he caught a snippet of conversation from two proctors standing nearby.
"…total lockdown on the lower dorm wings was overkill for a drill, if you ask me."
"Vance's orders was something about anomalous energy signatures. Netted a few problem students, I hear. A couple from that fractured lance—the ice girl and the quiet one."
"Thorne's people? He's still MIA from that unfortunate training accident, isn't he?"
"Presumed dead in the Chained Deeps, officially. A tragedy. Now, move along, the barrier generators in Sector 3 need a final check…"
Mira and Fen. Captured. The words confirmed his fears and added new fuel to the cold fire. Problem students. He was a problem they thought they'd solved.
He slipped into the service tunnel, leaving the sunlight and lies of the coliseum behind. He had his information. The board was set. His friends were in danger. His enemies were smug and secure.
It was time to stop observing and start acting.
He needed a den. A place to plan, to prepare. He thought of the abandoned structures on the academy's periphery, the ones damaged in the Haven's Fall incident and never fully repaired.
The perfect ashes in which to hide a spark of vengeance.
He moved towards the eastern bluffs, towards the ruins, a ghost returning to a world that had already written his epitaph. Let them believe Arlan Thorne was dead. The thing that had crawled out of the pit didn't need a name.
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