Duskmire breathed in shades of grey.
Its streets were narrow veins of cobblestone and mist, lit by glyph-lanterns that burned with pale blue light. The air always carried the scent of rain-soaked iron, and the sky—whether morning or night—never changed.
Elarion walked the familiar path from his dormitory to the Academy, coat drawn tight, boots splashing quietly through shallow puddles.
On the corner by Merrin's Apothecary, an old woman with cloudy eyes gave him a faint nod.
"Morning, boy," she rasped.
Elarion stopped just long enough to return it. "Morning, Mrs. Merrin."
She smiled—thin, weary, but real.
He moved on.
Further down the street, near the Lantern Bridge, two factory workers leaned against the railing, their voices low but sharp.
"There he is," one muttered.
"The Blank?"
The other spat into the gutter. "Sixteen and still nothing. Shouldn't even be allowed in Umbrael."
Elarion's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. He had long since learned that silence was easier than fighting words that would never change.
Yet, as he passed, he caught the faintest sound behind him—another voice.
"Leave him alone," said a young man, sweeping the streets with a broom. "World's cruel enough without you adding to it."
The workers grumbled but fell quiet.
Elarion glanced back only once and gave the street sweeper the smallest nod.
The man just tipped his cap and kept sweeping.
Not everyone in Duskmire was cruel.
Just… enough of them.
And so, with the weight of Duskmire's whispers still clinging to him, Elarion stepped toward the gates of Academia Umbrael—where silence was louder than any insult.
Duskmire never slept.
Even at dawn, the city looked like it was trapped between night and nightmare. The sun was nothing more than a pale smear behind an ocean of clouds, its light choked before it could ever reach the streets.
Elarion stood among the crowd of students gathered at the Academy gates, his coat drawn tight against the cold.
The gates of Academia Umbrael were towers of black iron, covered in runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Every time a student walked through, their aura flickered—measured, recorded, judged.
When Elarion passed, nothing happened.
No glow. No resonance.
Just emptiness.
He heard the snickers behind him.
"Blank."
"Why's he even here?"
He didn't turn around. He had learned not to.
Vaelreth, walking beside him, didn't react either. His pale violet eyes remained fixed forward. The chains that coiled around his shadow like sleeping serpents twitched ever so slightly, as if daring anyone to say it louder.
They didn't.
Inside the academy walls, the air smelled of ink and old stone. Lecture bells echoed from distant towers, and glyph lanterns illuminated endless rows of bridges and arches.
This was where Wanderers learned to shape their Paths.
And this was where Elarion—still a Blank—was a ghost among the living.
The first class was Path Theory.
Professor Halden stood at the podium like a weathered statue, his face lined with years of sleepless nights. Behind him, runes floated in the air, each one representing a Path: Seeker, Shade, Chainbearer, Ardent, Verdant, Sage.
"Remember this," Halden's voice carried like iron scraping stone. "Your Path is not merely a choice. It is a purpose. And purpose is what separates you from the things that lurk in the dark."
He gestured to a projection—a skeletal figure with too many limbs and hollow eyes.
A Nightwoomb.
Murmurs spread through the class.
"They say one appeared outside the Shrouded Expanse last night."
"Three Wanderers died."
Elarion's hand tightened around his pen. He didn't know why the word Nightwoomb made his skin crawl, only that it did.
Professor Halden's voice cut through the whispers.
"Power without purpose breeds failure. Failure births these."
His gaze swept across the room… and landed on Elarion.
The silence was sharp enough to cut.
"A Blank," Halden said coldly. "Remember this, class: better no power at all than to walk a Path you cannot hold."
Laughter rose in scattered pockets.
Elarion didn't flinch. Not outwardly.
But in the back of his skull, behind his eyes, something shifted.
A low hum. Like a string pulled taut.
After class, Elarion found himself alone in the old wing of the library.
He wasn't supposed to be there. The upper floors were restricted to advanced students, but no one ever noticed a Blank.
He ran his fingers along a row of books, the leather spines cracked with age. One of them—its title erased by time—seemed to almost… vibrate.
When he touched it—
Thud.
The world tilted.
Ink bled from the words, spiraling like smoke, and in it… an Eye.
Golden. Endless.
Its pupil shifted—vertical, spiral, infinite.
Elarion's breath caught.
And then a voice, quiet, sharp, like a knife dragged across glass:
"Remember."
He stumbled back, the book clattering to the floor.
Footsteps echoed from behind him.
"Breaking rules already?"
Elarion turned. Vaelreth stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
"You're going to get expelled."
Elarion stared at the book, then at him. "…Did you see it?"
Vaelreth's chains stirred, almost imperceptibly. He didn't answer.
Instead, he picked up the book, glanced at its blank title… and smirked.
"Come on, Blank," Vaelreth said. "If you keep staring at things like that… they might just start staring back."
But Elarion already knew they had.
Because when he looked into the library window, his reflection didn't look entirely like his own anymore.
For a split second…
The Eye blinked back at him.
Elarion placed the book back on the shelf, fingers lingering for a moment on the cracked spine as if it might whisper something else. Then, with a quiet breath, he followed Vaelreth out of the library's shadowed hall.
The chains at Vaelreth's back coiled lazily like sleeping serpents, brushing against the ground without sound. Elarion hesitated before speaking.
"Hey, Vael… that eye in the book—what was it?"
Vaelreth didn't stop walking. "An artifact," he said simply, his tone as calm as the echoing hush of the library.
Elarion frowned. "Artifact?"
"Tools," Vaelreth explained. "Objects left behind from an age when the world wasn't… like this. Some grant power, some sharpen it. A rare few," he glanced back at him, "can even give you a Path."
Elarion's gaze drifted toward the shelves they were leaving behind, unease prickling at his skin. "And that eye…?"
Vaelreth's lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. "The Eye of the Forgotten God. There are two, if the stories are true. One is lost… and the other?" He shrugged. "Hidden. People have been searching for them for centuries."
Elarion's fingers twitched at his side. He didn't know why, but something deep in his chest—something ancient and heavy—stirred at the mention of it.
"Where?" he asked quietly.
"No one knows," Vaelreth said, his voice as sharp as the silence between them.
Elarion stared at the floor for a moment, then lifted his head. "Vael… I want to find it."
Vaelreth stopped, glancing back at him fully now. For a moment, his violet eyes seemed to catch the dim light like polished glass. Then, a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"When you get your ability," he said, "and become a Wanderer… we'll go together."
Elarion blinked, surprised.
Vaelreth turned away again, hands in his coat pockets. "Until then, stop looking like a ghost. You're alive, aren't you? Start walking like it."
Elarion's lips curved in the faintest, unsteady smile. He followed.
And for the first time in a long time… the world felt a little less heavy.
The library doors groaned shut behind them, their heavy iron runes locking with a dull hum. The faint chill of Duskmire's air rushed in, laced with mist and the metallic scent of rain-soaked stone.
Elarion glanced up at the sky. No sun, no stars—just the same grey pall that smothered the city day after day. For as long as he could remember, it had always been like this.
"Vael…" Elarion's voice was quiet, almost lost to the sound of their boots on the wet cobblestones. "Do you really think the Eye is real?"
Vaelreth didn't answer at first. He simply walked, chains trailing like whispers in his shadow.
Finally, he spoke. "I think…" He glanced sideways, expression unreadable. "Some things exist whether you believe in them or not. The Eye is one of them."
Elarion frowned, uncertain whether that was comforting or terrifying.
As they turned onto Lantern Bridge, the pale-blue glyph-lights reflected across the black surface of the river below. On the far bank, the city's outer wall loomed like a jagged scar against the horizon. Beyond it lay only the Shrouded Expanse—wilderness, ruins, and the things that hunted in the dark.
"Artifacts," Elarion murmured. "If they can give someone a Path… why hasn't anyone used one to reach Tier One?"
"Because," Vaelreth said, "power always has a cost. And the greater the power…" He let the words hang, but Elarion understood.
The chains around Vaelreth shifted, faintly rattling. "Most who chase artifacts never come back. And if they do…" His voice lowered. "They're not the same."
Elarion didn't ask what that meant. He didn't need to. The image of the book—the golden Eye staring into him—was enough.
They reached the Academy gates. Vaelreth paused, hands in his coat pockets, staring up at the looming towers. "When you awaken, Elarion," he said without turning, "don't be afraid of what you become. Fear the price you'll pay if you try to be normal."
Elarion looked at him, startled. "What do you mean?"
But Vaelreth was already walking away, his chains slithering back into his shadow, leaving only silence in their wake.
Elarion stood there for a long moment, staring up at the dark spires of Academia Umbrael. The city felt smaller tonight. Colder.
And then—
A reflection in the glyph-lit puddle at his feet.
Not his own.
The Eye.
It opened.
Elarion stumbled back, heart hammering in his chest. He blinked once—twice—
Gone.
Only his own pale, tired face stared back at him now.
He exhaled, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, and followed Vaelreth through the gates. But he didn't notice the faint golden shimmer that lingered for just a moment longer in the puddle… watching.