The Council chamber was colder than the rest of the Academy, its tall stained-glass windows casting fractured light across polished stone. Candles burned low along the edges of the room, their smoke curling like restless spirits.
Headmaster Eldrin stood at the center, his staff resting calmly against the floor. Around him, the Councilors sat in their semicircle of carved thrones, their faces grim, their voices sharper than any blade.
"You've grown reckless, Eldrin," said Councilor Veyra, her tone like ice. She was tall, with silver hair bound in a braid so tight it looked painful, her eyes narrow as daggers. "To meet with the boy alone? To give him access to restricted texts? Have you forgotten what he is?"
Eldrin's eyes twinkled faintly. "I've forgotten nothing, Veyra. Alaric is not 'what.' He is who. And who he is may yet decide the fate of us all."
Another Councilor, a thin man with a voice like rust, leaned forward. "You gamble with fire. The Hollow Ones bow to him. The whispers around the Academy grow louder every day. If we do not bind him, he will become the next Eryndor."
"Or the first Alaric," Eldrin countered, his tone calm but firm.
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Veyra's lips curled. "And if you are wrong? If he falls to shadow, what then? You would doom us all with your sentiment."
Eldrin met her gaze without flinching. "And if I am right? If we bind him, crush him, drive him to despair — would that not be the surest way to push him into shadow's arms? Fear begets the very monsters it seeks to slay."
The words lingered in the air. Some of the Councilors shifted uneasily. Others glared, unpersuaded.
From the shadows near the back, Master Kael spoke for the first time. His voice was low, steady, dangerous. "I trained the boy myself. He is powerful, yes. But power is not corruption. Alaric has not yet chosen a path. Eldrin is correct — our actions may shape that choice more than his blood will."
Veyra slammed her palm against the arm of her throne. "Naïve! Both of you. You speak of faith as though it can chain destiny. You think kindness will keep the Hollow King at bay? Tell me, Eldrin — when the Hollow Ones breach these walls again, will you ask Alaric nicely not to join them?"
The chamber erupted into heated voices, Councilors arguing, accusations flying. Eldrin remained still, letting the storm rage around him, his gaze thoughtful but resolute.
At last he struck his staff once against the stone floor. The sound rang through the chamber, silencing the uproar.
"I will not allow fear to dictate our future," Eldrin said, his voice ringing clear. "Yes, Alaric is dangerous. Yes, he is a vessel unlike any we've seen. But so was Kenive, once. So was every bearer who stood between light and shadow. They were given trust — and they rose because of it. Shall we deny Alaric the same chance?"
The mention of Kenive rippled like a spark across dry grass. Even the harshest Councilors paused. Kenive was not just a myth — he was a legend of defiance, of power turned toward protection rather than conquest.
Still, Veyra's eyes narrowed, her voice dripping with venom. "You speak of Kenive as though the boy could match his discipline. Kenive was divine. Alaric is flesh. Weak. Tainted."
Eldrin stepped closer, his gaze locking with hers. "And yet flesh endures where divinity falters. Do not mistake humanity for weakness, Veyra. It is often the only thing that saves us."
The chamber fell into heavy silence.
Finally, the oldest Councilor, Master Rhylen, spoke. His voice was rough with age, but it carried authority. "This debate is futile. The boy's fate cannot be decided here in whispers. The time will come when his choices speak louder than our fears. Until then…" He leaned back, eyes sharp. "We watch. We test. We prepare."
A murmur of agreement followed, though it was reluctant.
Veyra rose to her feet, her robes sweeping the floor. She cast one last glare at Eldrin. "Mark my words, Headmaster. When the boy falls — and he will — his blood will be on your hands."
The Council dispersed slowly, their whispers trailing like smoke. Eldrin remained alone in the chamber, gazing up at the fractured light of the stained glass. His expression was calm, but his hand tightened on his staff.
Meanwhile, outside the chamber, Alaric sat in the library with Clem. Books lay open before him, the ancient tome Eldrin had given him resting heavy on the desk. But his focus wavered — he could feel the tension in the air, the way instructors eyed him more closely, the way students whispered when he passed.
"They're arguing about me, aren't they?" he muttered.
Clem glanced at him, her quill tapping lightly against the page. "Of course they are. Half of them want you in chains. The other half want you on a pedestal. No one wants to just… let you be."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "And Eldrin?"
She gave a small smile. "He believes in you. More than anyone else does."
Alaric lowered his gaze, his hand brushing against the amber stone. It pulsed faintly, steady as a heartbeat. Rudra's voice stirred within him, calm yet edged with warning.
"Faith is fragile, Alaric. Guard it well. For in the halls of power, allies are rare — and enemies are patient."
Alaric swallowed, the weight of those words sinking deep.
In the Council chamber above, shadows lengthened. In the library below, secrets grew heavier.
And somewhere between them, Alaric stood — a boy trapped in the war of faith and fear, watched by gods, hunted by hollows, trusted by one man who might yet be the only thing keeping him from the abyss.