The silence of the barrier pressed in around them.
Saphine's pulse hammered as Eris stood before her, his mask dissolved, his white hair glowing faintly in the lantern light. His eyes shimmered like the reflection of countless stars — too deep, too still to belong to someone who should have been her peer.
And then his form shifted.
The tall, ageless figure seemed to fold inward, his presence dimming without lessening, as though an ocean had retreated into the shape of a tide. Black mist curled, reshaping his body — his frame narrowing, his posture relaxing. When it cleared, Eris stood before her not as the cloaked enigma she had just seen, but as… a boy.
Not the polite, bespectacled "student" persona he wore daily — but something more natural, stripped of false airs. His pale hair fell loose around his face in a tousled, unkempt way, the faint traces of weariness gone. His eyes, though unchanged, seemed lighter, stripped of artifice.
"This," he said, his voice softer now, less measured, "is my original form."
Saphine blinked, struggling to breathe evenly. "Original? You mean you've been hiding this all along?"
"Not hiding." He slipped his hands into his pockets, gaze drifting briefly over the quiet city street beyond the barrier. "Sleeping. There are… reasons I don't walk the world as myself. Reasons you'll understand in time."
She frowned. "But why show me this now?"
At that, Eris looked at her fully. His eyes locked on hers — a weight so steady, so eternal, it made her chest tighten. "Because you asked. And because you already stole pieces of me the moment the fragment touched my past."
Her face flushed hot. "I didn't mean to! It just—"
"I know." He cut her gently, but with a faint, teasing curve to his lips. "That's why you've seen fragments no one else ever has. And why you're standing here now instead of running."
Saphine froze. She wanted to protest, but couldn't. He wasn't wrong. She should have run. What she saw in the fragment's rush — endless battlefields, the silence of whole kingdoms crumbling, moments stretched across centuries — should have terrified her.
But here she stood.
"Then… who are you, really?" she asked, voice trembling, though steadier than she expected.
For a moment, Eris said nothing. His gaze drifted upward, past the lanterns floating in the night sky, past the city's noise and light — as though he was looking at something only he could see.
"I have been called many names," he said at last, his tone carrying the rhythm of old memory. "The Watcher. The Nameless. The First Witness. To some, I am a shadow that outlasts empires. To others, I am nothing but a myth, a ghost tied to the birth of echoes themselves."
Her heart thudded painfully.
"But the truth is simpler," he continued. His eyes, heavy with centuries, turned back to hers. "I was there at the beginning. Before the gods you call legends left their footprints. Before echoes had names. I have seen every rise. Every ruin. I have carried memory of every silence."
His words sank into her like stones into deep water, impossible to grasp all at once. A part of her wanted to recoil, to deny it, but another part whispered — hadn't she already sensed it? The endless weight in his gaze, the unshakable calm, the way he moved as if he had seen everything before?
"…And yet," Eris added, softer now, "you're the first person to ever ask me who I really am."
Saphine's throat tightened.
Fear curled inside her, but not the kind that drove her away. It was awe — sharp, unrelenting awe, and beneath it something warmer she couldn't name. She clenched her fists.
"I want to keep knowing," she whispered. "Even if it scares me. I… want to understand you."
For the first time that night, Eris's expression broke. A quiet laugh slipped out, almost boyish in its gentleness. He reached out, brushing a lock of hair from her face with unexpected tenderness.
"Then you'll have to endure me," he said, voice warm and low.
The barrier dissolved with a whisper. The city's music and chatter rushed back in — laughter, bells, the aroma of roasted chestnuts wafting through the night. Yet the space between them felt entirely changed.
The next morning, the academy was buzzing.
Messengers roamed the halls, delivering sealed envelopes to each heir. Each bore the crest of the Peaks, the wax shimmering faintly with layered wards to prevent forgery.
Saphine's letter was slipped into her hand before she had even reached her classroom. Her heart skipped at the weight of the seal — her family's sigil, etched in scarlet wax.
She broke it open. The letter inside was brief.
"To the Heir of House Kaelith. The time has come. The second trial begins. Assemble at dawn, three days hence."
The words glowed faintly as she read them, then dimmed, the parchment cool beneath her fingers.
All across the academy, she saw the same scene unfolding — heirs clutching their own summons, their expressions shadowed by varying shades of fear, confidence, and calculation. Aerin read his with grim determination, jaw tight. Meline tucked hers away wordlessly, her expression cold, though her eyes glittered with unspoken thoughts.
By evening, the whispers had spread like wildfire.
Eleven heirs. Eleven shadows.
The first trial had forced them to uncover their guardians.
The second would demand far more.
And for the first time, Saphine realized — the awakening of Far Cry might not be her salvation. It might be the very thing that painted a target on her back.