Elarion sat at his desk, staring at the paper in front of him.
The classroom was silent except for the scratching of quills and the faint hum of glyph-lanterns above. Outside, the grey light of Duskmire bled through stained windows, making the room feel more like a mausoleum than a place of learning.
He looked at the paper again.
It was empty.
Just like him.
"Blank," he whispered to himself, lips barely moving. "Nothing but space… waiting for something that won't come."
The words stung more than he expected. A dry laugh escaped his throat, bitter and quiet.
"Maybe if I pretend it's fine… maybe if I say it out loud, it'll hurt less." He traced a fingertip over the edge of the paper. "If I'm blank like this… maybe I can draw something on it. Start over. Make myself…"
He stopped, the corner of his mouth curling into a sad smile. "Heh. Foolish. Just… foolish words to keep breathing."
Then—
A spike of pain.
Sharp, sudden, vicious. It bloomed behind his right eye, forcing him to clutch at his face. His quill clattered to the desk, ink bleeding across the paper.
And then… the world split.
Fragments of memory—no, not his memories—shattered through his mind like broken glass.
A hand writing symbols older than language.
A voice chanting words the world had forgotten.
An Eye—golden, endless—opening in a void of silence.
Elarion's breath hitched. His grip tightened against his temple as if he could claw the pain out.
"What… what is this…?" he rasped.
The flashes didn't stop.
He saw chains coiling around a dead star. He saw shadowed figures bowing before a throne carved from bone. He saw himself—not as he was—but as something vast, terrible, and divine.
And then…
A technique.
A motion.
A single stroke of a hand carving the air—followed by silence so absolute it devoured sound.
He didn't understand it. He couldn't. But deep in his chest, he knew it wasn't new.
It was… remembered.
The pain faded. Slowly. Reluctantly.
His breath came in uneven pulls, his fingers trembling as he reached for the quill again.
On the blank page, without fully realizing what he was doing, he drew it.
A single line.
Not a glyph. Not a word. Just a motion.
And for a moment—just for a moment—the ink on the page rippled, like reality itself had noticed.
Elarion stared at it.
And for the first time since the word Blank had been thrown at him like a curse… he felt something else:
Possibility.
He leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "Maybe… maybe I'm not as empty as they think."
From the back of the room, Vaelreth's gaze flicked toward him, violet eyes narrowing. His chains, faint and restless, twitched like they sensed something wrong.
He had seen it too.
The ink didn't move anymore.
But for one impossible instant… it had.
Then he said, "Or maybe I'm just overthinking."
He stared at the faint line on the paper until it looked like nothing more than ink again. Maybe… maybe it really was nothing.
"Probably because I didn't sleep," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes. Those dreams had been gnawing at him for days—no, weeks. Fragments of battles he never fought, places he never saw, and that Eye… always that Eye.
The bell rang, breaking his thoughts.
Students shuffled out of the classroom in groups, their chatter blending into an indistinct hum. Elarion rose slowly, slinging his bag over his shoulder, still rubbing at his right temple as if he could chase away the lingering ache.
"Hey, bud."
He turned. Vaelreth was leaning against the doorway, his usual calm expression sharpened with the faintest trace of concern.
"What?" Elarion asked.
Vaelreth stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Don't play dumb. I saw you during class—you grabbed your eye like it was about to burst out of your skull. What happened?"
Elarion hesitated, then shrugged it off with a weak laugh. "It's nothing. Just… didn't sleep enough. Those weird dreams keep showing up."
Vaelreth's violet eyes narrowed slightly. "Dreams again?"
"Yeah," Elarion said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's stupid, really. They don't even make sense. Probably just my brain throwing random garbage at me."
Vaelreth tilted his head, studying him for a long moment. Then he smirked and gave Elarion's shoulder a light shove. "Then maybe try sleeping properly, you idiot. Or do you like walking around looking like a half-dead ghost?"
Elarion cracked a small smile despite himself. "It's not my fault. I'd love to sleep if my head would stop throwing… whatever this is at me."
"Then stop thinking about it," Vaelreth said, brushing past him toward the hallway. His chains, faint and barely visible, curled like restless serpents around his feet. "Dreams aren't real. And if they are…"
He shot Elarion a sideways glance, smirk tugging at his lips.
"…we'll deal with it together."
Elarion paused for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Together."
But as he followed Vaelreth out of the classroom, his fingers brushed against the notebook in his bag.
The page with that single line.
The one that had… moved.
And for reasons he couldn't explain, he didn't throw it away.
Elarion and Vaelreth didn't head straight out. The academy's long corridors stretched before them, lined with tall windows where Duskmire's grey light pressed against the glass like it was trying to seep inside. Glyph-lamps flickered along the walls, their glow pale and cold, illuminating the endless stream of students moving between classes.
Elarion kept a hand on his bag, his thoughts still circling back to that strange line in his notebook. He could almost feel it—like it was waiting for him to look again.
Vaelreth noticed. "You're quiet," he said, falling into step beside him.
Elarion gave a noncommittal shrug. "Just tired."
Vaelreth's gaze lingered for a second, but he didn't push further. Instead, he glanced ahead at a group of students gossiping near the stairwell.
"Guess Velon's running his mouth again," Vaelreth muttered.
Elarion followed his gaze. Sure enough, Velon stood in the middle of the group, smirking like he owned the world, Grim looming at his side. Their eyes briefly met Elarion's, and Velon's smirk sharpened.
"Let's keep moving," Vaelreth said, steering Elarion down another hallway before Velon could say anything. They passed the training hall—where the faint sound of chains clashing and glyphs sparking against practice dummies echoed from within—and then through the library archway, its ancient runes carved deep into stone.
The academy was alive with its usual rhythm: footsteps on polished floors, hushed conversations, the faint metallic scent of old wards that clung to every wall.
Elarion exhaled slowly. "You ever get the feeling this place is… watching?"
Vaelreth smirked. "Only because you're paranoid."
Elarion huffed a laugh, but it was short-lived. Because as they reached the main doors, Velon and Grim stepped out from the misted courtyard, blocking their way.
And this time, neither of them looked interested in words.
Elarion and Vaelreth stepped out of the academy gates, the cold air of Duskmire biting against their faces. The streets beyond the iron walls were veiled in their usual pale mist, the glyph-lanterns humming faintly above.
But before they could take more than a few steps, two figures blocked their path.
Velon and Grim.
Velon, with his sharp features and immaculate uniform, smirked with the kind of arrogance only someone born into privilege could wear. Grim, broader and heavier, stood behind him like a silent wall of muscle.
"Hey, Vaelreth," Velon drawled, his tone sharp enough to cut. "Why are you always with this blank boy? Come with us instead. You don't need dead weight like him dragging you down. Be my friend instead."
Elarion froze, jaw tightening, but Vaelreth didn't even blink. His pale violet eyes fixed on Velon, calm as still water.
"This 'blank boy' has a name," Vaelreth said flatly. "Elarion. Call him by it. Or don't talk at all."
Velon snorted. "You'd really pick him over me?"
Vaelreth stepped closer, his chains stirring faintly like living shadows beneath his feet. His voice didn't rise. If anything, it grew colder.
"I don't like narrow-minded people who think themselves above everyone else," he said. "So do me a favor, Velon—buzz off."
Grim's fists clenched. "You dare insult us—"
Vaelreth's eyes shifted. Just a fraction. A faint glow lit within them, cold and violet, and the temperature around them seemed to drop like frost creeping over glass. The shadows at his feet twitched, serpentine.
"Try me," Vaelreth said softly.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Velon's smirk faltered, just for a moment. He swallowed hard, masking it with a sneer. "Fine. We'll leave. But remember this, Vaelreth—" he jabbed a finger toward him—"you'll regret insulting me."
"Keep telling yourself that," Vaelreth replied without interest.
Velon's face twisted, but he turned on his heel sharply, Grim following behind him with a glare that lingered a second too long.
Only when they disappeared into the mist did Vaelreth let the tension bleed from his shoulders.
Elarion looked at him, a small, almost amused smile tugging at his lips. "You didn't have to do that, you know."
Vaelreth glanced at him. "Yeah. I did."
And just like that, the two of them continued down Duskmire's cobblestone streets. The mist wrapped around the lanterns like restless ghosts, and the distant clang of the factories echoed like heartbeats in the hollow city.
Elarion stared at the ground for a moment, then up at the hazy skyline.
"…Thanks," he murmured.
Vaelreth didn't answer. He didn't need to.
For a long while, they walked in silence.
But in the back of Elarion's mind, behind the ache in his right eye, the voice from his dreams whispered again—low, sharp, and unmistakable:
"Remember."