The Academy had no bells to mark time.
It moved by intent.
When a student woke, the hallways guided them.
When a class began, the doors appeared.
When someone disobeyed… the walls remembered.
For Angel, surviving his first battle had made him a symbol. But symbols, he quickly learned, weren't always welcome.
Some stared with awe.
Others with fear.
A few with open hatred.
His dormitory was a floating chamber tethered to the eastern wing—humble by royal standards, but personalized the moment he imagined a window. The glass shimmered into place, overlooking a garden that never bloomed the same twice.
Still, he was alone.
Until his second week—when the classroom door opened and he walked in.
❖ ❖ ❖
He was tall, older—maybe fifteen. He wore dark crimson robes with silver threading and a badge etched with an ouroboros swallowing a quill: the mark of a Memory Binder, one of the rarest Gifted.
His hair was white. His eyes… impossible to read.
And when he walked past Angel, he didn't glance once.
"Who's that?" Angel whispered to the girl beside him.
She looked up from her spell-scroll, clearly annoyed. "You don't know? That's Silas Varn. His Gift lets him extract memories—and rewrite them."
"Sounds useful."
"Sounds dangerous."
Angel turned back toward Silas, intrigued. The boy carried a leather-bound tome chained to his hip. It pulsed faintly with magic. Not a book. A living grimoire.
❖ ❖ ❖
Over the next few days, rumors about Angel multiplied.
"He rewrote a golem into dust with a single thought."
"His dreams walk around at night."
"He can't be controlled."
The faculty began to divide.
Some offered guidance. Others assigned him impossible tasks meant to exhaust him. One instructor—Master Thorne—even tried to provoke him in front of a crowd.
"Dreamborn boy," Thorne growled, "how do we know your power isn't just luck dressed in flair?"
Angel had smiled coolly. "If you'd like, I can imagine you in a dress. We'll see which looks better."
The class had laughed. Thorne didn't.
Later that night, Angel returned to his room to find his walls bleeding ink and his bed turned to stone.
Not everyone liked cleverness.
❖ ❖ ❖
A week later, while studying projection glyphs in the silent library tower, Angel found a note slipped between the pages of his assigned text:
"You're not alone in being watched.
Meet me on the sixth floor after dusk.
Bring nothing. Trust less."
—S
Angel turned the page. The ink vanished.
Silas.
That night, curiosity won over caution.
The sixth floor didn't exist on the map. But at dusk, a spiral staircase appeared behind a statue that normally faced the wall. He climbed it alone.
At the top, a circular room lined with memory mirrors shimmered in silence. Silas stood at the center, one hand on his grimoire, the other held out in uneasy greeting.
"You're not the only one who doesn't trust the Academy," Silas said, voice low. "I've read whispers in the minds of our teachers. Someone wants your power sealed. Maybe worse."
Angel narrowed his eyes. "And you? What do you want?"
Silas smirked faintly. "I want to know how your power works. And in return, I'll show you how mine does. We learn from each other. We survive."
"And if I say no?"
Silas looked him dead in the eye.
"Then I'll be the first to kill you… before someone else does."
The room was quiet.
Angel took a breath. Then, slowly, he reached out his hand.
An alliance. Uneasy. Unnatural. But necessary.
Because in a school built on secrets, the only way to stay alive…
was to become one.