Obinai's eyes snap open before the first horn blast tears through the morning silence.
Too early.
He blinks against the pale light seeping through the curtains, his body leaden with the kind of exhaustion that clings to bones. A quick glance to the right—Bram's bed is a battlefield of tangled sheets, the imprint of his body still fresh in the mattress.
At least he's here.
The words slip out in a sleep-roughened mumble as he drags himself upright, joints popping in protest. The air is cool against his skin, carrying the faint musk of sweat and leather from yesterday's clothes strewn across the floor. He snags his shirt, wrinkling his nose at the stale scent clinging to the fabric. A dark stain near the collar catches his eye—dried blood or dirt, he can't tell.
Whatever.
He yanks it on anyway, the rough material scratching against his skin.
The hallway outside is a tomb, his footsteps the only sound echoing off the walls. Somewhere in the distance, a pipe clanks, the academy's heating system groaning to life. The cafeteria doors loom ahead, already propped open, the scent of cooking meat and something sweet curling through the air.
Obinai's stomach growls loud enough to startle a passing student, who nearly drops their tray in surprise.
Right. Food.
He grabs a chipped tray from the stack, the metal cold against his palms. The serving line is a blur of steam and clattering dishes—automaton chefs doling out portions with precision.
As he steps into the steam-clouded serving line, the aromas hit him like a physical force—smoky, rich scents that make his mouth flood with saliva before he even sees the food. There's the sharp crackle of searing wyvern bacon, each thick slice glistening with rendered fat that pops and sizzles on the griddle. Next comes a mountain of golden potato hash, the cubed edges fried to a perfect crispness and glazed with something sweet and sticky that catches the light like amber. Two eggs slide onto his plate next, their yolks quivering, so perfectly runny they threaten to break at the mere sight of a fork. The final touch is a heavy mug thrust into his hand, its contents swirling with steam that carries the warm spice of cinnamon and cloves—cider so thick it coats the sides of the mug, promising a burn that will wake every sleeping nerve in his throat.
The first bite of bacon is a revelation—salt and smoke exploding across his tongue, the crunch loud in his skull. The eggs surrender under his fork, rich yolk spilling across the hash in a decadent flood.
Damn. That's good.
The last bite of syrup-glazed bacon dissolves on Obinai's tongue, the perfect balance of sweet and smoky. He's contemplating stealing an extra slice from the passing automaton server when the bench creaks beside him.
He doesn't need to look. The scent gives her away—wild mint. Fiora settles in with her own tray, her movements trying to be precise. A bowl of pale broth steams in front of her, dotted with floating herbs.
They eat in silence.
Not the tense kind. Not the kind that demands filling. Just...quiet. The clink of her spoon against ceramic. The crunch of his toast between teeth.
Peaceful.
Then—
"How did you get here?"
Obinai freezes, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowers it.
Shit.
He risks a glance. Fiora isn't even looking at him, just stirring her broth slowly. The steam curls around her fingers as she adds, "Humans were exiled a thousand years ago."
Obinai's thumb rubs along the fork's tines. The metal is warm from his grip.
Should I tell her?
No...I can't.
He exhales through his nose. "Don't know how I got over the wall," he admits. The truth, mostly. "But I remember before."
"Before?"
Obinai's gaze drifts past her shoulder, his eyes losing focus as the past rises like smoke.
—Light filtering through the cracks of his room—
—The smell of cinnamon rolls—
—Laughter, rough but real, echoing through the apartment when the joke hits just right—
His fingers tighten around his fork. "Didn't appreciate it then," he murmurs. "But it was... simple."
A beat of silence.
Then he shakes himself, the present snapping back into focus. "Got picked up by someone. Teach knew Lyth. That's how I wound up here." He shrugs, as if it's that easy. As if the gaps in his story aren't gaping wounds.
Fiora nods, her spoon resuming its methodical path through the broth.
"Do humans even know their own history?"
Obinai barks a laugh. "Hell no." He leans back, the bench creaking under his weight. "Only history I remember is who was at war with who." His fingers tap an uneven rhythm against the table. "Guess I never cared enough to read the boring bits."
Fiora snorts, a quick exhale through her nose. "Figures."
Something in her tone makes Obinai's eyebrows draw together. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She sets her spoon down with care. The broth's surface ripples with the motion.
"Isolation tactic," Fiora says. "Keep a everyone focused on internal conflicts that never dissipate, they won't look beyond themselves." Her eyes meet his. "Less of a need to intervene. Easier to control."
Obinai chuckles, shaking his head as he spears a chunk of seared meat with his fork. Juice wells up around the tines, dripping onto his plate in fat droplets. "That's some effort, though," he mutters around a mouthful. The flavors burst across his tongue—smoky, rich. "Humans don't need an excuse to fight each other. We'll do it just 'cause."
He chews slowly...
—Back-alley school fights over nothing important—
—Homeless being ignored as if dead—
—The way his old neighborhoods turned on each other when their politics started to differ—
Fiora doesn't respond, but something shifts in her expression—a slight loosening around her eyes, the barest quirk of her lips. It's not quite agreement, but it's not disagreement either.
They eat in silence again. Fiora finishes first, her bowl scraped clean. She sets her fork down with a soft clink.
A silver strand of hair escapes its tie as she rises, catching the morning light. She tucks it behind one pointed ear without breaking rhythm.
Obinai watches from his seat, still working through his meal. His thoughts churn, turning over Fiora's words like stones in a riverbed.
Are we really that easy to control?
Fiora glances down at him, her gaze assessing. For a heartbeat, something almost like amusement flickers in her eyes. Then her smirk returns.
"As you were," she says, her voice dry, but not unkind, before she turns on her heel and walks off with her usual graceful yet purposeful stride.
Obinai watches her leave for a moment, then returns to staring blankly at his plate.
She's nicer than usual.
The cafeteria is quiet now...
Just as he's about to get lost in the calm, a shrill horn blasts through the air, signaling the start of classes. The sound jolts him out of his daze, and he jumps slightly, his fork slipping from his hand and clattering onto the tray.
"Damn," he mutters under his breath, looking around. The cafeteria is almost entirely empty now, with just a few stragglers making their way to class.
Now what?
No classes. No Bram. Just...time. The concept feels foreign, unwieldy in his hands.
Those weirdos from earlier...
He frowns, digging through his memory. The gnome's frantic directions surface like bubbles in murky water—last building past the alchemy wing, ivy carvings, can't miss it.
"Right."
...
...
The path behind the dorms is narrow. Tiny bioluminescent plants sprout between the cracks, their petals emitting a soft cerulean glow that pulses faintly, like lazy fireflies. The air hums with the scent of damp earth and what could be charged ether from the alchemy labs nearby.
Obinai's boots scuff against the stones as he walks, the sound swallowed by the rustling of leaves overhead. The trees here grow unnaturally straight, their silver-barked branches intertwining to form a vaulted ceiling. Sunlight filters through in scattered patches, painting the ground in shifting gold.
Too damn quiet.
The guild complex emerges like a dream—gleaming spires of enchanted glass, marble facades carved with elaborate sigils, banners of silk and threaded gold snapping in the breeze. One building boasts obsidian pillars wreathed in living flame, another has a floating garden suspended by humming levitation stones.
Obinai scoffs. "Show-offs."
Then he sees it.
Tucked between two towering oaks, half-swallowed by creeping ivy, sits a cottage that looks like it's one strong gust away from collapse. The roof sags in the middle, patched haphazardly with what might have been old spellbooks. The chimney leans like a drunkard, its bricks mismatched and crumbling. A single, crooked shutter clings to its hinge by sheer stubbornness.
"No fucking way."
But there it is—a faded banner strung above the door, its embroidered letters barely legible:
WHISPERING GROVE GUILD
Beneath it, someone has tacked up a sloppily painted sign:
"Yes, this is the real one. No, we won't move. Piss off, Solarium Order."
Obinai chuckles at this. "Oh, this is perfect."
As he steps closer, the ivy shivers. Not from wind—from movement. Tiny eyes blink open among the leaves, tracking his approach. The branches of the nearest oak creak ominously.
Alright. Maybe not just a cottage.
He raises a fist, hesitating for only a second before knocking. The door swings open before his knuckles connect.
Aylia stands there, a half-eaten glowing mushroom pinched between her fingers. Her moss-green hair is even wilder than before, twigs and what might be tiny bones woven into the strands.
"You're late," she says, and takes a bite of the mushroom.
Behind her, Tibbin's voice screeches: "BY THE SEVEN SPHERES, AYLIA, THAT'S TOXIC!"
Obinai grins.
Definitely not just a cottage.
Aylia chews her glowing mushrooms with the slow indifference of a grazing deer. She swallows, licks a stray fleck of bioluminescent juice from her thumb, and finally flicks her moss-green gaze toward Obinai.
"Might as well come in, human," she murmurs. Then, as an afterthought: "Try not to touch anything that screams."
Tibbin sputters, adjusting his spectacles with a nervous twitch. "Aylia! That's—that's hardly proper welcoming etiquette! What if he—"
"He won't die," Aylia interrupts, plucking another mushroom. "Probably."
Obinai hesitates at the threshold. The cottage exterior looks like a strong breeze might collapse it—weathered wood, sagging roof, ivy strangling the walls. But something hums beneath the surface, a vibration he feels in his teeth.
Magic. Thick magic.
He steps inside.
And the world expands.
"Holy—" The word dies in his throat.
The interior is vast—impossibly, stomach-droppingly vast. The ceiling arches high above like a cathedral grown from living wood, its beams twisting into intricate knots. The air is thick with scent: pine resin, wild honeysuckle, the damp-earth musk of upturned soil. It fills his lungs, sweet and sharp, like breathing in a forest after rain.
To his left, a sunken lounge sprawls across what should be the cottage's entire footprint. Plush cushions in deep greens and browns form a nest around a low table carved from a single, massive tree stump. The wood grain swirls in hypnotic patterns, forming faces that blink sleepily as he passes.
"They're harmless," Tibbin squeaks, noticing Obinai's stare. "Mostly."
Aylia drifts toward the center of the room, her bare feet leaving faint imprints in the grass that carpets the floor. Actual, living grass, soft underfoot and dotted with tiny blue flowers that chime when brushed against.
Obinai crouches, running fingers through the blades. They curl toward his touch like cats seeking pets.
What the hell kind of place is this?
A brook cuts through the room, its crystal-clear water chuckling over smooth stones. It winds toward a central fountain where the water arcs in perfect, silent ribbons—defying gravity before cascading into a pool filled with luminescent fish. Their scales flash rainbow hues as they dart beneath the surface.
"That's Snejaun," Aylia says, pointing to a particularly large fish with teeth like needles. "Don't stick your fingers in."
Tibbin scurries ahead, nearly tripping over a root that wasn't there a second ago. "Pay no mind to the—ah—living aspects! The Grove has a certain... personality." He gestures wildly toward the kitchen area.
It's like no kitchen Obinai's ever seen. Countertops of shimmering moonstone hold baskets of fruit that glow from within—peaches glow like embers, grapes sparking with tiny lightning flashes between stems. A massive hearth dominates one wall, its flames burning blue-green and smelling inexplicably of cinnamon.
A loaf of bread on the counter twitches.
Obinai takes a careful step back.
Aylia, now lounging across a floating divan made of woven vines, chuckles. "It's sourdough. We grew it from a spore culture found in a dragon's molar."
"Fascinating, truly!" Tibbin interjects, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. "But perhaps we might focus on—oh dear."
He freezes as Obinai drifts toward the training area. The grass gives way to smooth obsidian tiles, still warm underfoot. Weapons line the walls—not just swords and staves, but things that writhe in their racks: a whip made of living briars, an axe with a blade of frozen flame, a bow strung with what looks like captured moonlight.
Dummies stand in various states of destruction. One regenerates slowly, its straw guts knitting back together. Another whimpers.
Obinai's fingers itch.
This place is insane.
I already love it.
Aylia's eyes narrow as she studies Obinai from her vine-woven perch, her fingers idly plucking glowing spores from the air.
"Your gaze..." Her voice carries the cadence of a lazy stream, but there's an edge beneath it. "I didn't like it."
Obinai blinks. Huh?
She tilts her head, strands of her hair curling like curious vines. "Doubt. But you're human, so that's expected." A pause. Her nostrils flare slightly. "Yet...I feel as if something else lingers behind those eyes." She waves a hand dismissively. "Nevermind."
Tibbin nearly chokes on his own spit. "Aylia!" He hisses through gritted teeth, adjusting his spectacles with trembling fingers. "It would be in the guild's best strategic interests if you would please cease this line of—"
"Oh relax, Tibby," Aylia sighs, popping another bioluminescent berry into her mouth. "I'm just observing."
Obinai ignores their bickering, too distracted by the space unfolding around him as moves in farther.
Dark wooden beams twist into intricate knots, cradling clusters of floating orbs.
Is this place alive.
Tibbin scurries ahead. "The—ah—botanical aspects are perfectly harmless!" he squeaks, righting himself. "Mostly self-sustaining! The Grove has its own...ecosystem."
"It was grown from a single blade of grass stolen from the old Fae King's palace," she muses, plucking a flower from her perch that immediately regrows. "It hates being indoors. Very dramatic."
Beyond the meadow, the space shifts again—a raised platform of dark oak. Desks form a semicircle, each one cluttered with scrolls that rustle on their own, maps that redraw their borders in real time, and tools that twitch when he gets too close.
Tibbin wrings his hands. "The research division's workspace! Please don't touch the—
Too late. Obinai's fingers graze a hovering crystal orb.
The second he makes contact, the room lurches.
Prismatic light explodes across the walls, fracturing into thousands of shimmering shards that swirl like a storm of stained glass. The orb spins wildly, its surface rippling with images—a battlefield drenched in crimson, a tower crumbling to dust, a pair of glowing golden eyes—
"Ah!" Tibbin yelps, diving to catch the orb as it plummets. "The scrying orb is not a toy!"
Aylia doesn't move from her floating divan. "Told you not to touch the screamy things."
Obinai staggers back, his pulse hammering. What the hell was that?
The golden eyes linger in his vision, fading slowly. They felt...familiar.
Tibbin hugs the now-dormant orb to his chest, his spectacles askew. "Perhaps we should—ah—proceed to less volatile attractions?"
Aylia stretches languidly. "Boring. But fine." She points toward the back wall, where shelves of alchemical ingredients glimmer. "That one's mine."
A single jar sits apart from the rest, its glass frosted with cold. Inside, a swirling black mist presses against the walls, forming shapes—a screaming face, a clawed hand, a writhing mass of tendrils.
Obinai's skin crawls.
"What is that?"
Aylia smiles as she approaches it. "My former project turned pet."
Tibbin makes a sound like a deflating balloon. "Aylia! That is not—we agreed no more sentient specimens after the incident with the—"
"He's fine," she interrupts, tapping the glass. The mist recoils. "Mostly."
Obinai stares at the jar, then at Aylia, then around him.
These guys are insane...am I safe?
Tibbin adjusts his spectacles, forcing a smile. "So! About that membership application..."
Aylia yawns. "Just sign in blood. The quill's over there." She points to a feather pen that's definitely moving on its own.
Obinai starts to talk whe—
"I see you've been approached by the two newcomers…"
Obinai spins, heart kicking against his ribs—and there, framed in the doorway, stands Nio.
The elf leans casually on his crutch, his shaggy silver hair a wild halo catching the light. His mismatched outfit—one leg fully covered, the other bare below the knee—only adds to his disheveled charm. But it's his left eye that snags Obinai's attention again: the double pupil shifts slightly, like twin moons eclipsing one another.
Damn. That's so fucking cool.
Obinai tears his gaze away just in time to catch Tibbin frantically gesturing at Aylia. The nymph rolls her eyes but drifts toward the gnome anyway.
"Come," Tibbin hisses, tugging at her sleeve. "We must afford them privacy for—for delicate negotiations!"
Aylia flicks a mushroom cap at his forehead. "You mean you're scared Nio will set your notes on fire again."
"That was one time!" Tibbin squeaks, already retreating toward the kitchen.
Nio watches them go, his smirk deepening. Then he limps forward, the rhythmic tap-tap of his crutch syncopating with the bubbling brook.
"So," he says, stopping just shy of Obinai. "Were you impressed?"
Obinai scoffs. "Impressed? That's like saying a dragon's 'kinda hot.'" He gestures wildly at the impossible space. "This place is—what the hell even is this? Some pocket dimension? Illusion magic?"
Nio's chuckle is low, rough at the edges like well-worn leather. "Better." He leans his crutch against a table (which promptly grows a new branch to hold it steady) and hops up to sit on the edge. "The Grove's alive. And it likes showing off."
As if in response, the vines framing the doorway curl into intricate knots, forming what looks suspiciously like a middle finger.
Obinai snorts. "Yeah, I can see that."
Nio's mismatched eyes gleam. "Tibbin's the brains. Aylia's the… whatever she is." He shrugs. "And I'm the one who convinces the faculty not to expel us when things get… interesting."
Ok...
Nio chuckles again, the sound warm and rough like gravel underfoot. He crosses his arms, the movement pulling at his loose tunic sleeves, revealing a flash of scarred forearm before the fabric settles back into place. His expression shifts—still amused, but with an edge of something sharper now.
"You were pretty interesting in the tournament, you know."
Obinai feels heat crawl up the back of his neck. His fingers twitch toward his locs before he catches himself, forcing his hand down to rub at his nape instead. The memory of those fights surfaces—the tiefling's sneer, the crowd's roar, the way his knuckles had split open on someone's teeth.
"Interesting" isn't the word I'd use.
"Man," he mutters, scuffing his boot against the floor, "I was just trying not to get my ass handed to me by those prodigy freaks." The admission comes out rougher than intended. "They're playing a whole different game."
Nio's grin doesn't fade. If anything, it grows. He takes a limping step closer, the tap of his cane against stone marking the rhythm of his approach. Up close, Obinai catches the scent of iron and something herbal clinging to him—healing salve, maybe.
"Exactly," Nio says. His eyes lock onto Obinai's. "That's what I liked. You were holding your own against kids groomed for guild glory since they could walk."
Obinai shifts his weight, the praise sitting awkwardly on his shoulders. He's used to sneers, to challenges, to prove yourself stares. Not...this.
What's his angle?
"I wasn't thinking about any of that," he admits, shrugging. "Just didn't wanna eat shit in front of the whole school."
Nio lets out a laugh, the sound startling a pair of messenger doves from a nearby eave. They take off in a flurry of wings, their shadows darting across Nio's face as he tilts his head.
"Fame? Money?" He flicks his fingers as if brushing away cobwebs. "Any of that shit matter to you?"
The question hangs between them...
Obinai exhales through his nose. "Fame's just a target on your back. Money..." He thinks of before. "Money matters when you don't have it."
Nio's expression does something complicated—approval mixed with something almost wistful. He leans in, close enough that Obinai catches the glint of old silver piercings along his earlobe, long since healed over.
"Good answer," he murmurs.
Obinai looks at him, confused. "Why's that?"
Nio exhales through his nose, straightening up from his slouch against the table. His fingers tap a restless rhythm against the polished wood. "This guild..." He pauses, lips twisting like he's tasting something bitter. "Whispering Grove. It's got a reputation. The bad kind."
Obinai's fingers twitch. Of course it does.
Nio gestures vaguely around the impossible room—the living grimoires, the training dummies that occasionally twitch, the brook that shouldn't exist inside a building. "All the original members? Gone. Every last one. Now it's just me, a couple of second-years you just met, and one third-year who got blacklisted from every other guild for being 'unstable'."
Obinai's jaw tightens. Tibbin talked about connections. Aylia made it sound like some elite circle.
"They lied," he mutters.
The older student catches it anyway. "Let me guess," he says, mouth quirking into a smirk. "Tibbin gave you the whole 'esteemed academic consortium' speech?"
"No," Obinai says, shaking his head. "It was Aylia."
Nio groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Aylia..." The name comes out half-exasperated, half-fond. "Didn't think she had it in her to lie." He leans back against the table, arms crossed.
Obinai raises an eyebrow. "She seemed pretty damn convincing."
"That's because she wasn't lying," Nio counters. "Not really. Aylia believes every word she says. The Grove was powerful once. She just...omits the part where it's now a glorified dumping ground."
A book flutters past, pages rustling like laughter. Nio snatches it out of the air and shoves it onto a shelf, where it squirms indignantly before settling.
Obinai watches the exchange.
He leans back against a moss-covered bookshelf, arms crossed. The scent of aged parchment and something faintly metallic—maybe the floating daggers hovering near the training dummies—lingers in the air. His fingers tap an absent rhythm against his elbow as he studies Nio.
"So why keep the name?" he asks, tilting his head. "Why not just scrap it and start fresh?"
Nio, lounging on a cushion that seems to reshape itself to his form, stretches with a groan. "Names have power," he says. "Even half-rotten ones."
Aylia says lazily from from around a corner, "Translation: we're too lazy to file new paperwork."
Tibbin, who had been trying to quiet her from interrupting says next, "That's—that's not entirely accurate! The Whispering Grove still holds some standing in the academic registry! Marginal, perhaps, but—"
"Barely a whisper," Nio interrupts, waving a hand. "But a whisper's enough." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The playful glint in his eyes dims just slightly. "The others who joined...we were all nobles who realized our bloodlines meant shit if we didn't have the power to back them up. Or the desire to play the games."
Obinai's fingers still. Games. He knows those too well...kind of.
"You want to rebuild," he says slowly, testing the words.
Nio's grin returns. "Not just rebuild. Remake." He gestures around them—to the living grimoires, the training dummies that occasionally let out muffled screams, the brook that sometimes flows upward. "This? This is what happens when you stop giving a damn about tradition and start giving a damn about results."
No noble would dare associate with something this unstable.
"And Bram?" he asks, careful to keep his tone neutral.
Nio's expression shutters for a heartbeat. "Bram's got potential. More than me, maybe." He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. "But he's been given House standing now. Dragging him into this would just paint a target on his back and run his new status back to the gutters."
What about my backing with Killian? Obinai thinks but doesn't ask. Yeah. Better not mention that.
"So why me?"
Nio holds his gaze. "Because you don't give a damn about the rules of the Exalted or the Neutrals. Because you're a survivor."
He nods toward Obinai's hands—faintly scarred. Then, Obinai's eyes drop to the finger. The one that had been severed…and regrown.
He can still hear it—the sick, wet sound of it tearing back into existence.
Why do I have to think about that no—
"That's what this guild stands for now. Not blood. Not titles. Just what can the survivors of this system do."
Obinai's jaw tightens. Then why not invite Bram and so many others who would die to be in guilds...am I missing some thing here? He doesn't ask the question but it stays there in his mind.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he asks. "What happened to the original members?"
Nio's expression darkens a bit, a shadow passing over his face. He doesn't answer immediately, instead turning and walking over to a nearby table and motions for Obinai to join him. He sits down carefully, adjusting his crutch as he leans back. His hand moves to his leg, massaging it absentmindedly. There's a moment of silence before he speaks, his voice quieter than before, almost reflective.
"Whispering Grove wasn't always this...eccentric," Nio begins. "Twenty years ago? It produced the strongest mage this kingdom's ever seen."
Obinai's boot taps against the table leg. "Let me guess—Lyth?"
Nio's lips quirk. "Lythandor van Freinin, to be precise. Half godkin, half high elf. The kind of prodigy that makes other prodigies question their life choices." His fingers trace an old stain on the table—a burn mark shaped like a handprint. "The man could hold stars before he hit puberty."
Some noise comes from around the corner. Probably Tibbin or Aylia. Nio waits until their footsteps fade before continuing.
"Then he met him."
Obinai leans in. "The guildmaster?"
Nio nods. "Fifth-year. Specialized in life energy equations used mostly by gnomes." At Obinai's blank look, he rolls his eyes. "Right, you're basically illiterate. Imagine math so advanced it lets you cheat the universe. Gnomes get glimpses of it through intense use of Sciencia."
"Sounds like cheating," Obinai mutters.
"It's genius," Nio corrects, tapping his temple. "This guy? He took one look at Lyth and saw raw potential. Asked him to join the Grove like all the others."
Obinai snorts. "Bet that went well."
"Lyth laughed in his face," Nio confirms, grinning. "So the guy challenged him to a duel."
Obinai's pulse jumps. "And?"
Nio's grin turns wolfish. "The guildmaster wiped the floor with him. Total humiliation."
Obinai whistles low. "Damn. What'd he do? Some forbidden spell?"
"Worse." Nio's fingers still. "He out-thought completely. Lyth was all power, no finesse back then. The gnome? He turned Lyth's own magic against him using pure calculation."
A shadow passes over Nio's face. "Changed Lyth forever. Made him...kinder. Started caring about lifting others up instead of just climbing over them."
Outside, a bell tolls. Nio pushes to his feet with a grunt, his crutch scraping stone.
Obinai listens intently, hanging onto every word. There's something tragic about this story, he can feel it in the way Nio speaks, but he doesn't interrupt.
"Then," Nio continues, in a voice that makes Obinai's neck prickle, "the guildmaster went chasing ghosts." His crutch rest against the table leg as he props himself up. "Some damn fool expedition after graduation. Official records say 'field research on life energy convergence'." A bitter chuckle escapes him. "We both know that's academic bullshit for 'chasing something he shouldn't have'."
Obinai's fingers twitch.
Nio's eyes glaze over, seeing something far beyond these dusty shelves. "Search party found...pieces. Just enough to confirm." His throat bobs. "Never even got a body to burn."
"Fuck," Obinai breathes.
Nio's hands still. "Lyth stepped up. Third-year student running the whole damn guild." His lips twist. "Kept us afloat through sheer stubbornness. Then graduation came and..." He makes a sweeping gesture with his crutch. "Poof. Off to play hero somewhere else...or trained under someone else think."
Obinai watches a dust mote drift through a shaft of dying sunlight. "But he came back."
"Years later," Nio confirms. He rubs at an old stain on the table - dark as dried blood. "By then the guild was..." His fingers flutter in a dying bird motion. "All our alliances? Gone. Reputation? Trashed. You know how these noble houses are - loyalty lasts exactly as long as the benefits do."
Obinai's mind flashes to Elrik's sneering face. "Yeah. I noticed."
Nio's crutch scraps against the floor as his brings it to himself. "Lyth funds this place from his headmaster salary now. Pays for the repairs, the grants..." He gestures to his leg with a self-deprecating smirk. "Even the medical expenses. But it's not the same."
Obinai studies him. "Why stay?"
Nio's lips curl slightly. "Because anywhere else would be too easy." He glances down at his leg, the crutch leaning against the table beside him. "Nothing has been easy for me…not with the way people look at me, not with this," he gestures to his leg. "I don't want easy. I want to prove myself. Here, no one expects much from us. Everyone knows who I am, knows my power. But I want to show them—show myself—that I can do more."
"Sounds like you've got something to fight for," Obinai says quietly, leaning back in his chair.
Nio grins, though there's a hint of sadness behind it. "Yeah…something like that."
A couple more seconds of silence come around before Nio concludes. "Well, the hard part's out of the way," he mutters.
Obinai raises an eyebrow, confused. "The hard part?" he asks.
Nio looks up, meeting Obinai's gaze. "Yeah. Keeping this place running... keeping Whispering Grove from falling apart. It's not easy when you're starting with little to nothing. All we have is each other, and even that's barely enough sometimes."
After a beat of silence, Nio straightens up and gives Obinai a crooked grin, but there's no humor behind it. "You've probably heard a lot about me from Bram, huh?"
Obinai nods. "Yeah, he mentioned you're the strongest in the school."
Nio chuckles, shaking his head. "The strongest in the school, huh? People love to throw that title around," he mutters, his eyes dropping to his leg again. "But it doesn't mean shit. Not really."
Obinai tilts his head, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
Nio looks up again. "What does being the strongest in the school matter if it means nothing out there?" He gestures toward the window, where the academy grounds stretch out into the distance. "The world's bigger than this school. And out there? There are people stronger than me. Way stronger. Individuals who've fought battles we can't even imagine, who've faced things that'd break most of us."
He pauses for a moment, his jaw clenching slightly as if wrestling with the thought. "That's what gets to me. I can't follow in Lyth's footsteps. I don't want to. He was a once-in-a-generation prodigy. His power, his legacy—it's all tied to things I can't touch. He changed, sure, but his path? That's not for me."
Obinai listens intently, his arms crossed now.
Nio leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he continues, his voice more subdued now. "I need to find my own path. And to do that, I need this guild to be something more than a forgotten name. I want the members of Whispering Grove to be among the strongest—not just in this school, but out there, in the real world. I want people to see us and know we're not just some joke. I want us to matter."
He looks at Obinai with a steady gaze, his eyes full of purpose. "That's why I'm asking you. Will you join us? Will you be part of that?"
Obinai feels the weight of the question. He looks around the room, taking in the grandeur of the cottage's interior—the way the space feels alive with magic, the bubbling brook, the soft light filtering through the vines. It's a place of potential, but it's also clear that it's barely holding together. Without Lyth's support, without someone like Nio pushing forward and its few members, this place would probably collapse.
Obinai rubs the back of his neck, thinking it over. The idea of being part of something like this…is kind of exciting.
"Yeah," he says finally, looking back at Nio with a small smile. "Why not?"
…
...
The sun dips low on the horizon as Obinai steps out of the cottage, the soft amber light casting long shadows across the path. In his hand is a small piece of paper, the one he and Nio had both signed. He glances at it, the weight of the decision he'd just made still settling in his mind. Nio had mentioned that his school guild identification would arrive in a few weeks, but Obinai had stopped him mid-conversation, casually mentioning that they should hold onto it for a month because he had to go somewhere. Nio had raised an eyebrow but didn't question him further, just nodded and said, "Okay."
Obinai stuffs the paper into his pocket, feeling a quiet sense of accomplishment settle over him. A small grin pulls at the corner of his lips, and he's about to head back to his dorm when something—or rather, someone—catches his eye.
Linea, walking with a few of her friends, her blue tail swaying gently behind her. Do I really want to do this now? His pulse kicks up a notch, a traitorous rhythm against his ribs. But something inside him pushes him forward.
"Hey, Linea!" Obinai calls, his voice a little shaky but managing to sound casual.
She turns around, her blue tail curling slightly as she faces him, her sharp features and striking eyes meeting his gaze. She raises an eyebrow. "What do you want human?" she asks, her tone neutral but not unfriendly.
The girls behind her—two beastkin and a dark elf with sleek black hair and silver jewelry—fall silent the moment they notice Obinai. Their eyes shift between them, whispering quietly among themselves. Their curious glances make Obinai's pulse quicken, and he can feel a bead of sweat forming at the back of his neck. His palms are clammy, and he has to swallow the lump forming in his throat.
"Uh…I was wondering if I could talk to you. In private," Obinai says, his voice a little steadier than he feels.
The girls behind Linea gasp in unison, their eyes widening in disbelief, but she immediately shushes them with a wave of her hand, her tail flicking slightly. "Alright," she says coolly, tilting her head slightly as she motions for him to follow her. "Let's talk."
Obinai follows her a few paces away from her group, his heart pounding in his chest. His hands fumble into his pocket, pulling out the crumpled voucher he found earlier.
Voucher for the I.M.P.
Obinai holds the paper out to Linea, clearing his throat as he hands it to her. "I…I was wondering if you could find out what this is."
Linea takes the paper, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies it. "Why?" she asks, glancing back at him.
Obinai shifts on his feet, scratching the back of his head nervously. "I think it's Bram's. I found it in our dorm, and he's been acting weird lately. I was hoping you might be able to help figure out what it is."
Linea raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but she remains skeptical. "Why don't you just ask Bram yourself?"
Obinai clicks his teeth, frustration flashing briefly in his eyes. "I tried. He won't tell me anything. He's been disappearing more and more lately, and I think…I think this might have something to do with it."
Linea looks at the voucher again, her eyes scanning the elegant lettering, and her expression shifts slightly as she seems to recognize something. She folds the paper carefully and looks back at Obinai. "You might be right, human," she says, her voice thoughtful. " I did say to come find me if you found something. Good work. I've heard whispers about the I.M.P. I'll find out what this is tomorrow and get back to you."
Obinai breathes a sigh of relief, nodding gratefully. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
Linea tucks the paper away, giving him a small nod. "Don't mention it. I'll let you know what I find."
Obinai is about to respond when he catches sight of her friends still staring at him, their eyes wide with curiosity and disbelief. The intensity of their gaze makes his legs feel weak, and his face heats up.
"Alright, I'll, uh…I'll leave you to it," Obinai stammers, taking a small step back, eager to escape their eyes. He nods one last time to Linea and then quickly jogs off, feeling the weight of their stares burning into his back.
As he rounds the corner, finally out of sight, he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and mutters to himself, "Man, those girls were making my legs feel like jelly…" He shakes his head, chuckling softly, then quickens his pace toward his dorm, hoping that tomorrow brings some answers.
...
...
The door creaks open, its hinges groaning like a tired old man. Obinai steps into the dim dorm room, expecting the usual mess—discarded clothes, Bram's half-eaten snacks, maybe the lingering stench of sweat after a long day.
Instead, he's met with silence.
Too quiet.
His instincts prickle before his eyes even adjust. There, at their rickety wooden table, sits Bram—motionless, his frame rigid in the chair. Moonlight slices through the window, painting one side of his face in pale silver while the other drowns in shadow. His fingers are steepled, tapping a slow rhythm against the tabletop.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Obinai's stomach knots. He forces a grin, shoving down the unease. "Yo, why're you sitting there like a pissed-off gargoyle?"
Bram doesn't blink. Doesn't twitch. Just keeps staring...
"Did you take it?"
Obinai's pulse kicks up. Shit. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms—casual, relaxed. "Take what? Your dignity? Pretty sure you lost that years ago."
A muscle jumps in Bram's jaw. The tapping stops.
"The. Fucking. Paper."
The voucher.
Obinai swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. "Paper?" He scoffs, rolling his shoulders. "Man, I don't know what you're—"
CRASH
Bram explodes from the chair, sending it flying into the wall. Before Obinai can react, Bram's in his face—close enough that he can smell the sour tang of adrenaline on his breath, see the wild dilation of his pupils.
"BULLSHIT!"
Spittle hits Obinai's cheek. He doesn't wipe it away, but instead raises his hands, palms out. "Whoa, easy—"
"Easy?!" Bram barks a laugh that's more snarl than sound. He rakes both hands through his short black hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. "That's rich. Real fucking rich."
He starts pacing like a caged animal, his boots thudding against the floorboards. "Everyone's on my ass! The neutrals, the instructors, even the fucking walls in this place!" A fist slams into the dresser, making the wood splinter. "That paper was the one thing keeping me sane!"
Obinai watches the vein in Bram's temple pulse. Watches the way his fingers twitch like they're itching to wrap around something—or someone.
This isn't just about the paper.
Something's wrong.
Bram whirls on him, chest heaving. "Last chance, Obinai. Where is it?"
Obinai's fingers twitch at his sides. The dorm room suddenly feels too small...
Shit. He's serious.
"I don't know, dude," Obinai says, holding up his palms. His pulse thrums in his throat, but he keeps his voice steady.
Bram paces again. Each step is jerky, uncontrolled—nothing like his usual lumbering gait. When he turns back, his finger jabs toward Obinai's chest.
"No one else comes in here! Erion's never around!" He accuses. "So where the fuck is my paper?"
The lie burns hotter than it should. "I didn't see any damn paper!" he snaps, stepping forward. "The hell's wrong with y—"
THUD
Bram shoves him—hard. Obinai's back slams into the wall, the impact rattling his teeth. His vision whites out for a heartbeat, the breath punched from his lungs.
Fuck—
He gasps, sliding halfway down the wall before catching himself.
"What the hell, Bram?" he chokes out.
Bram's lips curl back, baring teeth. When he speaks, the words are alien—"Vareth khol'shan draas!"
The syllables slither through the air like living things. Obinai's blood runs cold.
Shit. My concentration broke again.
His fingers fly to his neck, pressing against the pulse point. "[Translation]," he grits out.
AGONY
Fire erupts across his chest, blue veins igniting beneath his skin like lit fuses. His mana circle strains, fracturing at the edges—the spell tearing through him. He bites back a scream, his knees buckling as the glow spreads up his throat.
Across from him, Bram staggers back, his rage faltering. "The hell—?"
The pain crests, then ebbs, leaving Obinai panting and drenched in sweat. He manages a weak smile.
"Okay," he rasps, pushing off the wall. "Now I can understand you."
Bram's eyes widen slightly, his fury momentarily derailed by Obinai's sudden collapse. His hands hover awkwardly in the air, fingers twitching between clenched fists and open palms, as if unsure whether to attack or help.
"What the fuck was that?" he finally snaps, voice cracking.
Obinai drags the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the cold sweat that's gathered there. His breath comes in short, sharp bursts—each inhale sending a fresh jolt of pain through his cracked mana channels.
"Told you," he grits out, "my circle's fucked. Nearly blew myself up when we fought dude." He forces a grin that's more bared teeth than smile. "So go on. Finish your little tantrum."
Bram's face does something complicated—anger warring with concern before settling back into familiar frustration. He rakes both hands through his hair, making the dark strands stand up in wild tufts.
"You're insane," he mutters. He paces again, this time with less of energy and more of a man walking himself off a ledge. His boots scuff against the worn floorboards, leaving faint marks in the dust. "This whole situation is bullshit. Can't deal with you. Can't deal with this place. Just—fuck."
Obinai watches him carefully, leaning his weight against the wall. The rough plaster digs into his shoulder blades through his shirt. Something else is eating at him. Worse than usual.
"Look," he starts, keeping his voice low, "I don't know what's crawled up your ass, but you can't just—"
Tap. Tap.
The sound is so soft it barely registers. Both freeze.
The air in the room shifts—the tension twisting into something more alert. Bram's head snaps toward the door, his body coiled tight. Obinai can practically see the hairs on his arms standing up.
"Who the hell—?" Bram's voice is barely above a whisper.
Obinai pushes off the wall. The remnants of mana burn still lick at his nerves, making his fingers twitch. He takes a slow step forward, the floorboard creaking under his weight.
Not Linea. Not Gideon. Too quiet for faculty.
Another knock—just the faintest brush of knuckles against wood. Hesitant.
Obinai's hand hovers over the doorknob. Behind him, Bram has gone preternaturally still, his breathing shallow. The silence stretches, thick enough to choke on.
Then—
"Open it," Bram says. "Before I lose my damn mind."
Obinai turns the knob.
The door swings open to reveal—
Erion.
His body collapses forwards.
"Fuck!"
Obinai drops to his knees hard enough to bruise, catching Erion before his face hits stone. The weight is all wrong—too light, like his bones have been hollowed out.
Gods, what did they do to you?
Up close, the damage is worse. Much worse.
Erion's face is a patchwork of split skin and swelling bruises, one eye swollen shut. Blood mats his golden hair into stiff clumps, the stench mixing with something sour—vomit crusted on his torn uniform. His breath comes in shallow, wet hitches, each exhale flecking Obinai's wrist.
"Erion!" Obinai barks, rolling him gently onto his back. The fabric of his shirt sticks to his chest with half-dried blood. "Talk to me, damn it!"
Behind him, Bram makes a sound like a wounded animal. His boots scrape against stone as he shifts, but he doesn't step closer.
Erion's remaining good eye flutters open. His cracked lips move, the words barely audible:
"El-Ellrik... he... they..."
A shudder runs through his body. One trembling hand rises, fingers curling into a weak fist before dropping limp.
Obinai's vision tunnels. The rage is sudden, all-consuming—a white-hot knife between his ribs.
"Elrik and his pack of shit-eating sycophants," he snarls, looking up at Bram.
Bram's fists clench and unclench at his sides. For a heartbeat, Obinai thinks he might walk away.
Then—
"Goddamn bastard," Bram growls. He stomps forward, dropping to one knee beside them. His hands hover over Erion's injuries, unsure where to touch. "How bad?"
Obinai peels back a torn section of Erion's shirt, revealing an ugly purple bruise spreading across his ribs. "Bad enough."
Without a word, he spins on his heel and starts toward the door.
"Bram! What are you doing?" Obinai scrambles to his feet and rushes to block Bram's path, spreading his arms wide. Bram stops, looking up slowly to Obinai, the fury practically radiating off him.
"Move," Bram says.
Obinai's pulse hammers in his throat, but he digs his heels in. "Can't do that."
The temperature seems to drop several degrees. Bram's eyes - usually warm with mischief - have gone flat and dark. "Without your magic," he sneers, "you're fucking useless."
Obinai feels the insult sink into his ribs. For half a heartbeat, he actually considers stepping aside.
Fuck that.
He shoulders slack. "Damn, man... seriously?" He manages. "This how we're doing things now?"
Bram's hands flex at his sides. "Yeah. So fucking move!"
Obinai shifts slightly to the left - just enough to make Bram think he's yielding. The moment the imp steps forward, Obinai's foot snakes out.
Thud.
Bram hits the stone floor face-first with a satisfying crunch. He rolls onto his back, clutching his nose as blood seeps between his fingers. The look he levels at Obinai could melt steel.
Obinai leans down, hands braced on his knees. "Useless, right?" The smirk feels brittle on his face. "Look, I don't know shit about that paper you're ready to kill over. But I do know Erion's bleeding out back there while you throw a tantrum."
Bram's snarl falters. His eyes flick past Obinai to where Erion lies slumped against the wall.
"Right," Obinai presses, straightening up. "And because you're not actually an idiot, you're not gonna throw away your Right to House over this." He nods toward Erion. "Things are different now. You've got shit to lose."
Bram clenches his fists, his knuckles turning white as he pulls himself up slowly. His eyes are still dark with anger, but the tension between them seems to ebb slightly.
Obinai smiles faintly, trying to ease the mood. "Right. So let's get him to the infirmary before you do something you'll regret."
Bram wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand, glaring at Obinai for a moment longer. Then, with a heavy sigh, he mutters, "Fuck this." He shoves past Obinai, heading toward Erion.
"Hurry the hell up," Bram snaps over his shoulder. "I want to sleep."
Obinai chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he bends down to help lift Erion off the floor. "Yeah, yeah. Let's get this done."
He'll kill me if he finds out...shit.
Together, they carefully hoist Erion up, his body limp between them, and start toward the infirmary, the tension still thick but no longer boiling over.
The infirmary had moved since the tournament, and Obinai and Bram found themselves wandering the quiet, dimly lit halls of the academy, trying to figure out where the new location was. The only sound, aside from their footsteps, was Erion's faint groans, as they carried him through the winding corridors. Every so often, Bram would mutter curses under his breath, clearly frustrated as they stumbled along, searching for the right path.
"Where the hell did they move it?" Bram says, adjusting Erion's weight on his shoulder. Obinai's on the other side, struggling to keep his balance as they trudge down yet another hallway.
"I don't know," Obinai grunts. "Just keep walking. It's gotta be around here somewhere."
They take a narrow corridor that twists and turns, its stone walls damp with moisture. The route takes them through the main courtyard, now quiet and dim in the fading light, the sky overhead tinged with hues of purple and deep blue. They pass the large stone fountain, its waters glistening in the low light, and round the corner toward the older part of the academy, where the infirmary used to be.
Bram's shoulder rams into the double doors with a grunt, his muscles straining as he and Obinai half-drag, half-carry Erion's limp form through the entrance.
Damn, he's heavier than he looks, Obinai thinks, his fingers digging into Erion's side where the elf's uniform is slick with sweat and blood.
The infirmary is all warm wood and soft lamplight, the rows of beds neatly made with crisp white linens. At the far end, the elven nurse—same tight silver bun, same immaculate white tunic—snaps a sheet over a mattress with military precision. She doesn't look up until the doors slam against the wall.
Her sharp eyes flick over them in an instant—Bram's nose, Erion's...everything.
"Oh dear."
She flicks a hand toward the freshly made bed. "There. Now."
Obinai and Bram stagger forward, their boots leaving faint streaks of mud on the floor. Erion's dead weight makes the last few steps feel like wading through tar.
"Fuckin'—hold him steady!" Bram snaps as they lower him onto the mattress. Erion's head lolls to the side, a thin trail of blood leaking from his nose. His breathing is shallow, his skin waxy under the glow of the hovering lumen orbs.
The nurse is already moving, her hands igniting with a soft green radiance before she even reaches the bed.
"What did you fools do?" she asks.
Obinai opens his mouth—
"Don't answer that," she cuts in, pressing glowing fingertips to Erion's sternum. The magic pulses, sinking into his skin. "I'd rather not have to report another illegal duel."
Obinai wipes his hands on his pants, the fabric rough against his sweaty palms. I think she remembers me.
The nurse's magic works quickly—knitting fractured ribs, sealing split skin, coaxing color back into Erion's cheeks. Her lips purse as she probes a particularly nasty bruise along his ribs.
"He'll live," she declares finally, stepping back. "Though his pride may take longer to heal."
Bram exhales hard, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Thanks."
She fixes him with a look that could curdle milk. "Save your gratitude. Next time, try not to beat your friends half to death before breakfast."
Bram opens his mouth to protest—
"Out." She points to the door. "Both of you. Unless you'd like me to check and report those injuries you're pretending don't exist?"
Obinai grabs Bram's arm before he can argue. "We're going!"
The door clicks shut behind them.
Bram wrenches his arm out of Obinai's grip making him stumble.
"Damnit, Bram—" Obinai's protest dies on his lips as his friend stalks away.
Bram doesn't turn. "Goin' to sleep. Elrik'll get his soon enough."
Obinai watches him disappear around the corner, fists clenched at his sides. Always leaving me to clean up the—
A groan from the infirmary cuts the thought short.
Obinai exhales through his nose as he pushes back through the double doors. Inside, the air hums with healing magic—green light spiraling around Erion's still form on the cot. The nurse's hands move in precise patterns, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"He gonna make it?"
She doesn't look up. "Obviously. Greater healing and a minor artifact will have him skipping through meadows by morning."
Erion twitches, a fresh bruise on his jaw fading under her glowing fingertips. The sight twists something in Obinai's gut.
Should've been faster. Should've—
"You never gave your name earlier," he blurts, desperate to drown out the thoughts.
The nurse pauses. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the soft crackle of healing magic. Then—
"Nylian." She adjusts the silver-chained artifact around Erion's wrist—a delicate thing that pulses in time with his heartbeat. "But you'll address me as Ms. Angst." Her emerald eyes flick to Obinai, sharp as broken glass. "Unlike some, I prefer professionalism."
Obinai's cheeks burn. "Right. Ms. Angst."
She returns to her work, the magic weaving through Erion's ribs. "Now," she says, "care to explain how your friend acquired three fractured ribs and a concussion?"
Do I Lie? Truth?
Obinai's shoulder blades press against the infirmary bed frame, the cold metal seeping through his threadbare shirt. "I don't know. He just showed up like this at our door."
The words taste bitter in his mouth. Not enough. Not nearly enough to explain the way Erion had looked—bloodied, broken, his breath coming in wet, ragged gasps as he collapsed against their dorm room door.
Ms. Angst's sigh cuts through the memory. "Dear me..." Her starched white apron rustles as she moves. A hand lands on Obinai's shoulder—surprisingly warm and steady. "He'll mend. But you need rest too, child."
Child. The word exposes the exhaustion in his bones. He nods, dragging a hand down his face.
Then—movement in his periphery.
Gideon.
The dwarf lies sprawled on the next cot, his massive frame barely contained by the infirmary bedding. The worst of the bandages are gone, but his arms remain bound in slings, the thick muscles beneath peppered with fading bruises. His face, though—peaceful. No trace of the pain that had twisted his features days prior.
Alive.
The knot in Obinai's chest loosens, just a fraction.
Ms. Angst follows his gaze. "He'll be back in no time," she murmurs, adjusting a vial of glowing salve on the bedside table. "Stubborn as an launce, that one."
A snort escapes Obinai before he can stop it. "Yeah. Sounds like him."
The head nurse's lips quirk—the closest thing to a smile her no-nonsense demeanor allows. "Go. Sleep. Before I dose you with something to make you."
Obinai pushes off the bed. "Thanks," he says.
The double doors swing shut behind him, cutting off the soft hum of spells. The hallway yawns ahead, dim and quiet.
Alive. Both of them.
For now, that's enough.
...
...
The evening air bites at Obinai's exposed forearms as he trudges across the courtyard. The academy's floating lanterns cast wavering pools of light across the worn cobblestones, their glow barely holding back the encroaching darkness. His shadow stretches long and distorted behind him, flickering like a living thing as he passes beneath them.
Gods, I need sleep.
His boots scuff against the stones, kicking up tiny puffs of dust that glitter briefly in the lamplight before settling back into obscurity. The usual nighttime sounds—the distant murmur of late-night studiers, the occasional hoot of some creature—are absent tonight, leaving only the whisper of wind through leaves.
Then—
A hum.
It starts low, vibrating in his molars before crawling up into his skull. Obinai freezes mid-step, his hand flying to his ear on instinct. The sound isn't just heard—it's felt, rattling his teeth like he's standing too close to a tolling bell.
What the—
He turns sharply, scanning the empty courtyard. The arched walkways stand silent. The fountain at the center bubbles undisturbed. Nothing.
"The hell?" The words come out rough. He digs a finger into his ear, shaking his head like a dog after a bath. The hum persists...
Not again.
Memories flash—the same sensation in the cafeteria, that morning in the infirmary. Always fleeting. Always unexplained.
A gust of wind sends dead leaves skittering across the stones. The hum rises in pitch for one heart-stopping second—then cuts off abruptly, leaving his ears ringing in the sudden silence.
Obinai exhales through his nose, his breath visible in the chill air. "Losing my damn mind," he says, rubbing at his sternum where an odd ache has taken root.
The dorm looms ahead, its windows dark save for a few scattered lights. Somewhere above, a shutter bangs against stone in a steady, mocking rhythm.
Just need to sleep it off.
But as he reaches for the door handle, his fingers hesitate. The silence now feels heavier. Waiting.
Behind him, the courtyard lies empty.
The hum is gone.
But memory of it lingers.
He steps inside, half-expecting to see Bram sprawled out on his bed, snoring away. But as Obinai looks around, he notices something odd. Bram's bed is untouched, the sheets again perfectly made.
"So much for him going to sleep," he mutters under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. He was sure Bram had been serious when he stormed out of the infirmary, but it seems even Bram couldn't stick to his own plans.
Just then, Obinai hears faint snores coming from somewhere nearby. He pauses, furrowing his brow as he tries to locate the sound. He turns toward the small bathroom, and with a confused look, he pushes the door open slightly, peering inside.
Bram is fast asleep in the bathtub, his arms folded over his chest and his legs stretched out awkwardly, his mouth slightly open as soft snores escape him. His face is still bruised from falling earlier, but the expression he wears now is one of complete exhaustion.
Obinai can't help but smile at the scene. "What the hell, man…" he whispers. He takes a step forward, intending to wake Bram and tell him to get out of the tub, but something makes him stop, but...his face.
Bram's expression, even in his sleep, looks troubled. Obinai sighs. Maybe sleep—wherever he could find it—was the only thing keeping him grounded right now.
Obinai steps back, deciding against waking him. Instead, he quietly reaches for the bathroom light, turning it off with a soft click, letting the darkness wrap around Bram as he sleeps. He closes the door gently, leaving just a crack open so the room doesn't feel too closed in.
"Get some rest, man," Obinai whispers to the closed door before heading to his own bed.
His bed is as simple as ever—just one white sheet draped over it. Obinai strips down, tossing his clothes onto the chair in the corner, not even caring about the mess they create. His body is aching, and all he wants is to shut his eyes and let sleep take him.
He sinks into the bed, pulling the sheet over himself and letting out a long, tired breath.
Maybe I made a mistake.
The thought slithers into his mind.
I should've gone after Linea. Should've torn that damn paper out of her hands before she—
A bitter laugh escapes him, sharp and humorless. He rolls onto his side, the bed creaking in protest, his muscles coiled tight.
This is insane.
His chest tightens.
Who knew I'd end up here?
Not just in a new school. Not just in this damn kingdom.
This is practically another world.
He grits his teeth, the pressure building behind his eyes.
"It sucks that I still haven't made any progress," he mutters aloud. His fist slams into the mattress, the impact muffled.
But do I have to?
The thought is dangerously tempting.
I could just stay here. Let the world back there move on without me. I mean...it already has right.
Then—Vale's voice echoes in his skull.
"Something's coming."
Obinai's breath hitches. His fingers curl into the sheets.
There's a reason.
A reason for the experiments. The dreams. The death. The carnage.
Beezelbub.
The name ignites something dark and seething in his gut. His entire body tenses, muscles locking like a sprung trap. The sheets tear under his grip.
"I can't," he hisses through clenched teeth. "Because of him."
The demon. The parasite. The thing that slithered into his soul and made a home there.
He brought this onto me.
A snarl rips from his throat. In one violent motion, he kicks off the sheets, the fabric tangling around his legs before he tears free. Sweat beads at his temples, his pulse roaring in his ears.
I have to get him out.
The mission solidifies in his mind.
Find the truth.
About the humans. About their exile. About the dreams.
About his father.
The thought of that man—that madman—sends a fresh wave of fury crashing through him. His palms press into his forehead, fingers knotting in his hair as he groans.
"Damn it!"
Silence swallows the outburst. The only sound is his breathing, the distant hum of machinery, the faint rustle of the night outside.
He forces air into his lungs, pressing a hand against his chest as if he can physically steady his heartbeat.
"Okay," he mutters. "Okay. Vale said I'm in one of the best spots to figure this out. Either here… or the church."
His brow furrows.
But what church?
The thought slips away before he can grasp it. He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face.
Then...a thought. Something he hasn't addressed at all until now.
"I'm an asshole," he admits, the words bitter on his tongue.
The realization settles over him like a weight.
No way I get what I want if I piss everyone off. I'm lucky even now that I haven't died because of it. I have to make some change to all of this...one way or another.
A small laugh escapes him.
So why not help them instead?
The idea takes root, twisting into something almost playful. A grin tugs at his lips—sharp, calculating for once.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "First, I gotta prepare for—"
A sudden, bone-deep chill slices up his spine.
Then—agony.
White-hot pain erupts in his chest, searing through his ribs like a branding iron pressed directly into his soul. His back arches off the bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as a strangled gasp tears from his throat.
And then—laughter.
Familiar. Vile.
"Obinai," Beelzebub's voice purrs inside his skull. "How interesting. Your mana circle is compromised. Your soul is…vulnerable. And now—" A dark chuckle. "Now you can hear me perfectly."
Obinai's teeth grind together. His vision swims, the edges darkening as the demon's presence coils around his mind.
"Fuck you," he snarls.
Beelzebub's laughter deepens, reverberating through his bones.
"Oh, but this is delicious," the demon croons. "Every time you weaken, every time you falter—I grow stronger. Fate itself keeps handing me gifts. And you?" Another laugh. "Oh I just have so much in store for what comes next."
Obinai's fist slams into the mattress.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
The challenge hangs in the air—a taunt, a dare.
"One day," Obinai says, "I'll be facing you for real." His knuckles whiten against the bedsheets. "Not in my head. Not in dreams. Real."
Beelzebub's laughter is a razor dragged across his skull.
"Yes, yes, and you'll face me with all that you have," it says. "But that's not enough." A pause. "I need more desperation. More fire. This... this is all so surface-level."
Obinai's blood runs cold.
"What the hell are you—"
"Oh, I'll come up with something," Beelzebub purrs. "Don't you worry." His voice drops. "I may even... lay other intriguing seeds along the way. Because of that."
Obinai stills.
A beat of silence. Then—
"Speaking of all these tasks you have to do," Beelzebub muses, "I could just... solve them for you."
Obinai's breath catches. "What?"
"I could tell you everything. Right now." The demon's voice is honey-sweet, dripping with temptation. "The truth about the humans. The church. Your father. All of it."
Obinai's fingers dig into his thighs.
"...For what?" he asks, voice rough.
Beelzebub laughs, the sound echoing through his bones.
"Oh, of course," the demon coos. "Give me everything."
A cold sweat breaks across Obinai's skin.
"What do you mean?"
"Your mind. Your soul. Your body." Each word sears into him. "Allow me to consume it all. And in return...I'll give you everything you could ever want."
The offer hangs in the air...
Obinai's thoughts spiral.
All the pain would go away.
His chest tightens.
I wouldn't hurt anymore.
A memory flickers—his mother's smile, his sister's laughter, even his father's rare, unguarded moments before the madness took him.
I could join them.
I could rest.
For a single, terrifying second—he considers it.
Then—
He shakes his head, a sharp, violent motion.
"How dumb would that be?" he spits, forcing a laugh. "To yield to a thing like you?"
Beelzebub's laughter is delighted.
"Yes! Resist me!" the demon howls, gleeful. "Struggle! It makes the feast sweeter!"
Obinai's laughter dies in his throat as Beelzebub's voice shifts, dropping into something more dangerous.
"But things are different now," the demon whispers. "They're not like they were before Vale imprisoned me." A pause. "I could take over. I could switch."
Obinai's blood turns to ice.
"What?"
"Whenever. I. Want."
And then—
Pain.
White-hot, blinding—Obinai convulses, his back arching off the bed as Beelzebub's presence surges through him. His vision fractures, the room spinning—
And for one horrifying second—
He isn't in control.
His hand moves on its own, fingers curling, twisting, darkening—
Then—
Silence.
Obinai collapses back onto the bed, gasping, his body trembling.
Beelzebub's laughter lingers in his skull.
"Think on that, boy," Beelzebub murmurs, the words oozing like tar. "But I will say this..."
Another pause. Deliberate. Cruel.
"Those who worship me are closing in."
"What?"
Obinai can feel the demon's grinning in his head. "A plan has already been set in motion. I might even meet the others if things go as smoothly as I foresee."
"What...what the hell are you talking about?" he manages.
Beelzebub exhales—a slow, satisfied sigh that curls through Obinai's lungs like smoke.
"The future," the demon says. "Because all you've done is arrive here. Nothing of true worth has taken place."
A whisper of movement—Obinai's own hand twitches without his command, fingers spasming as if plucking invisible strings.
"So brace yourself," Beelzebub says finally. "This? This is only the beginning."