Chapter 15: The Unspoken Pact
The air in the Guild's infirmary was thick with the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee. Jonathan sat alone in the waiting area, the memory of his mother's face on the creature's lips a ghost he couldn't banish. The altar shard had bought them time, but the bargain felt hollow. He had a brief reprieve from the inevitable, a delay not a cure.
A door swished open and Lilith stepped out, her expression unreadable. She walked past him without a word, her footsteps echoing in the silence. He didn't follow. He couldn't. The mistrust between them was a tangible thing, a heavy weight in the room.
The only person who spoke to him was Seraphina. She sat beside him, the scent of fresh rain clinging to her uniform. She didn't ask what was wrong. She just offered him a small, chipped mug of lukewarm tea. "You look like you haven't slept," she said softly.
He accepted the tea, his fingers brushing hers. "I'm fine," he lied, the words tasting like ash.
Seraphina didn't push. She simply sat there, a quiet presence in his turmoil. She had a way of seeing past his walls, of understanding the pain he tried so hard to hide. She was his anchor in a world that was slowly slipping away.
Meanwhile, in the dimly lit archives of the Guild, Chloe and Arthur worked in secret. The Guild Master's private collection, a sprawling library of ancient tomes and forgotten lore, was their battlefield. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dust, and the silence was only broken by the frantic rustling of pages.
"We're looking for a countermeasure, a way to sever the link without destroying the vessel," Chloe explained, her voice a determined whisper. She felt a fierce sense of purpose, a desperate need to find a cure for Jonathan's mother, a way to atone for her past.
Arthur, his face grim, shook his head. "There is no countermeasure," he said, his voice heavy with ancient knowledge. "There is only sacrifice. The gods knew this. They wrote it in the stars, but Aethel erased it."
Chloe's eyes narrowed. "Then we'll rewrite the stars."
A tattered scroll caught her eye. It was drawn in the same crimson runes as the altar and the Guild Master's archive notes. It was a divine snare, a ward to trap Aethel's soul. But the scroll was incomplete, a missing piece leaving the ward useless.
"The Guild Master was close," Chloe said, her voice filled with a desperate hope. "He almost had it. But he failed. We can't."
Back at the school, the chattering energy of the students felt alien to Jonathan. He sat alone at a table, nursing his tea, his mind a million miles away. He had no friends, no one to confide in. The only person he had was Seraphina, but even she couldn't understand the full weight of his secret.
A shadow fell over his table. It was Liam, the bully who had tormented him for years.
"What's the matter, Havery?" Liam sneered, his voice dripping with false concern. "Did a little monster give you a boo-boo?"
Jonathan didn't respond. He just stared at the tea, his jaw set.
Liam's smirk widened. "I heard you're getting soft," he continued. "Heard you froze up in the Red Gate. I guess a zero-ranker's always gonna be a zero-ranker, no matter how much power they have."
Jonathan stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. He didn't speak. He just stared at Liam, his eyes a cold, hard stone.
Liam's bravado faltered. He took a step back, a flicker of fear in his eyes. He had never seen Jonathan like this. He had never seen the sheer, unadulterated rage that was simmering beneath his calm exterior.
"What, you gonna cry?" Liam scoffed, his voice trembling slightly.
Jonathan's knife, a phantom in his hand, found Liam's throat before the words could fully fade. It was a moment of pure, animalistic fury, a complete surrender to the dark, primal part of himself.
A moment later, he was gone, leaving a shaken Liam and a stunned cafeteria behind him.
That night, Jonathan found himself at the Guild's training yard, alone, the cold air a balm against his fevered skin. He pounded a dented dummy, each strike fueled by the rage that had been simmering inside him.
The dark voice purred in his mind. "Don't fight it, Jonny. The rage is a gift. Let me help you. Let me make the pain stop."
He didn't respond. He just kept punching, the pain in his knuckles a welcome distraction. The rage was a part of him now, a constant companion in his isolation. It was a dangerous gift, a poisoned chalice, but it was all he had.
What will Jonathan do next with this newfound rage in the next chapter?