The Academy no longer felt like a place of learning. Its marble halls, once alive with chatter and camaraderie, now echoed with whispers and suspicion. Wherever Alaric walked, the air thickened. Conversations halted, eyes darted away, and when they thought he was too far to hear, the murmurs began again.
"Traitor."
"He let the darkness in."
"Should he even be here?"
But not all voices were against him. A smaller faction, stubborn and unyielding, spoke in his defense.
"He saved us."
"None of you could have faced what he did."
"He's not a monster—he's human."
The Academy had fractured. The rift wasn't just among students; even the instructors had taken sides. Some lectured as though nothing had changed, studiously ignoring him. Others delivered their lessons with barbed remarks, their eyes narrowing on him when they spoke of corruption or betrayal.
At first, Alaric bore it in silence. He sat in the back rows, kept his gaze low, pretended not to hear. But silence only sharpened the divide. To those who feared him, his quietness was proof of guilt. To those who defended him, it was proof of restraint. And to Alaric himself, it was a mask he was no longer sure he could keep wearing.
The council chamber mirrored the tension of the halls. Word had spread quickly of his connection to the shadow realm, of the powers he had drawn upon during the last trial. Now, the Academy's leadership gathered in whispered meetings, their debates spilling into the open like cracks in stone.
"His presence destabilizes the Academy," one instructor snapped, her voice carrying through the corridors. "Every day he remains, we risk corruption spreading."
"He is a child," another countered. "A child who fought when none of us could. Are we so ready to abandon our own?"
"Or perhaps," said a third, older and more cautious, "we should not abandon him but… harness him. If he can walk between light and shadow, he may become the weapon this Academy has always needed."
Weapon. The word reached Alaric's ears long before it was meant to. It clung to him like a curse, replaying in his head as he wandered the grounds. Weapon. Not student. Not boy. Not human.
The days brought whispers and divisions, but the nights… the nights were far worse.
For each time Alaric closed his eyes, he was pulled back into the psychological realm—a labyrinth of trials that clawed at the seams of his mind.
The first night, he was shackled in chains of radiant light. A faceless voice thundered from the dark.
"Would you sacrifice your humanity to gain absolute power?"
When he refused, the chains burned his skin, leaving marks that lingered even after waking.
The second night, he stood before a mirror. His reflection smiled with eyes blackened like pits of void.
"You will never be both," it whispered. "Choose the light, or the dark will choose you."
When he tried to shatter the mirror, a thousand shards embedded themselves in his skin, and he awoke with the sting still fresh.
The third night brought him to a battlefield of corpses. Students from the Academy lay lifeless at his feet, their eyes hollow, their lips moving in unison to chant his name. When he screamed, the corpses rose and crowned him with a circlet of bone.
"King of the Fallen," they called.
He tore it from his head, only to wake with his pillow damp with blood.
Each trial was sharper, crueler, crafted not merely to test him but to break him. And each morning, he woke with his heart pounding, his fingernails dug into his palms, his breath ragged as though he had run miles.
Clem was the only one who dared draw near. She found him at dawn, sitting alone in the courtyard, his gaze lost somewhere beyond the horizon.
"They're breaking you down," she said softly. Her voice carried no accusation, only fear. "And if you let them… they'll decide what you become."
But Alaric said nothing. Words felt fragile, like glass ready to shatter. Inside, he was already splintering.
The political storm reached its peak a week later. A gathering was called—students, instructors, council members all pressed into the great hall. The debate turned to fury.
"He is a danger to us all!" shouted one side.
"He is proof of resilience!" shouted the other.
"Exile him!"
"Crown him a hero!"
The hall became a battlefield of words, every accusation and defense like a spear or shield hurled across the room. Alaric stood at the center, silent, his body present but his mind elsewhere—already being tugged back toward the realm he could not escape.
Even in that crowded hall, he felt the pull of sleep tugging at him. His vision dimmed, and in the blink of an eye, the hall melted away. He stood once more in the realm of tests, alone before a looming figure cloaked in both light and shadow.
"You cannot belong to both," it intoned, its voice a fusion of every whisper he had ever heard—accuser and defender alike. "The Academy debates your worth, but it is you who must decide. Are you savior, or are you traitor?"
The weight of their question crushed him. He screamed, not at the figure but at himself. And when he opened his eyes, he was back in the hall—hundreds of faces staring, waiting, judging.
The debate had stopped. His outburst echoed in the silence. He had spoken the words aloud.
Savior… or traitor.
And no one knew which side he had chosen.