Gareth stepped through the towering gates of the Royal Academy, the sunlight glinting off the polished stone walls. Whispers followed him like shadows, curling through the courtyards and classrooms. Students stopped mid-stride, eyes wide, averted their gaze, and hurried past as if proximity itself were contagious.
He could feel it—the weight of every glance, every suppressed gasp. No one approached. No one dared. Even the older nobles, known for their arrogance, lowered their heads in quiet deference.
The Academy had been heralded as a place of learning, of camaraderie, of growth—but for Gareth, it felt like walking through a forest of eyes sharpened into blades. Each step echoed against the cobblestones, loud enough to announce his presence before he even spoke.
Magic lingered around him, subtle but undeniable: a faint shimmer in the air, the taste of static on the tongue. Some of the students whispered about the eclipse, others about the calamity he'd left in his wake. None of them dared come close. None of them tried.
Gareth's hands tightened into fists. Alone, as always, he thought. Yet beneath the sting of solitude, a spark flickered—a resolve that refused to break. The weight of yesterday's battles pressed against his chest, but he would carry it. He had to.
And somewhere beyond the crowd, Captain Ryn waited—watching, calculating, a silent anchor in a world that had grown wary of him.
The courtyard buzzed with the morning's activity, but as Gareth's boots struck the cobblestones, everything seemed to pause.
Lyric Thalorne tilted her head, lips pressed in a thin line. "Is that… him?" she whispered to the student beside her, eyes flicking toward Gareth. She admired the sheer control he radiated—but she'd never admit it.
Eamon Veyre scowled, stepping aside with exaggerated caution. "Move out of his way. He thinks he can waltz through here like a hero?" His fingers itched to conjure a flame, just to see how Gareth would react, but pride—and fear—kept him still.
Seris Alcade perched on a bench with a thick tome open, but her eyes were fixed on him. She made no sound, no movement, only noting the faint shimmer of his magic, curiosity warring with caution.
Kael Draven leaned against a pillar in shadow, expression unreadable. He didn't flinch, didn't whisper—simply observed. Something in Gareth reminded him of distant battles and lonely nights.
Isolde Marven skipped past him, humming a soft tune, barely noticing the tension around her. Even she, cheerful and fearless, sensed the power radiating off him, yet she offered a small nod of acknowledgment—nothing more.
Roran Valis muttered under his breath as he tried to keep pace with Eamon. "Why's everyone staring at him like that?" He avoided eye contact, more nervous than brave.
Talia Nyx perched on the fountain edge, eyes glinting with amusement. "Interesting," she murmured, a smirk playing across her lips. "Let's see how long he lasts without breaking someone's nose."
Darius Quell stepped aside silently, fingers brushing the edge of a magical notebook. He calculated, observed, measured. Gareth was an anomaly—and Darius always liked a puzzle.
No one came close. No one dared. And yet, each gaze left a ripple in the courtyard, an invisible boundary marking Gareth as apart, untouchable, and watched.
Gareth chose a bench at the far edge of the courtyard, shadowed by an overhanging archway. From here, he could see everything—the whispers, the hurried steps, the subtle shoves as students tried to maintain distance. No one came near; no one dared.
Lyric Thalorne glanced his way, eyes narrowing in curiosity and faint admiration, muttering something to the friend beside her.
Eamon Veyre scowled as he passed, his hands twitching as if to unleash a spark, before remembering the unspoken boundary.
Kael Draven lingered in the shadows, jaw tight. Every movement Gareth made felt like a reminder of Xenta's death, yet he remained silent, watching, calculating.
Seris Alcade's gaze flickered from her open tome to Gareth, interest hidden behind polite detachment.
Talia Nyx perched on the fountain edge, smirking, clearly enjoying the tension she could sense from this quiet figure in the back.
Even Isolde Marven, so cheerful and unafraid, offered only a polite nod as she passed.
From his seat, Gareth observed it all—the fear, the judgment, the curiosity. The Academy buzzed with life around him, but for him, it was a distant storm he could watch safely from afar.
The lecture hall smelled of parchment and ozone, the air tingling with faint magical energy. Gareth sank into a bench at the very back, letting the buzz of students around him wash over him unnoticed.
At the front, Professor Caelum Veyris raised a hand, and the room silenced instantly. His amber eyes swept the crowd, landing briefly on Gareth. "Today," he began, voice crisp and commanding, "we will explore the foundation of Veilbound Magic—the stages every practitioner must traverse to harness the Veil."
He gestured, and a glowing diagram appeared midair, shimmering between the students. "Stage One: The Veilbound Root—The Awakening Stage. This is where a user touches the Veil for the first time. Your abilities are raw, unstable. You may manifest attributes like Light, Dark, Chaos, or focus on Order, Body, Spirit. The Veil is thin here, a boundary between reality and the unseen. Only those who survive the initial shock awaken true potential."
Gareth's eyes narrowed. The thin boundary… unstable abilities… He could feel echoes of his own battles within that description.
"Stage Two: Dualism Spectrum. Here, the practitioner learns to balance opposing aspects of the Veil—Light and Shadow, Chaos and Order, Body and Spirit. Harmony allows power to flow; imbalance leads to conflict. Some techniques require walking the line between two extremes, like shadows between mirrors."
A murmur ran through the students. Gareth noticed Kael Draven stiffen, jaw tight, but he didn't move.
"Stage Three: The Five Quintessences. Control over Matter, Energy, Mind, Time, and Void begins here. Symbolically, think of them as the five points of a star. Mastery of these essences separates the fledglings from true Veilbound."
Professor Veyris paused, letting the weight of the information settle. "Stage Four: Veilforms. Temporary reshaping of your own existence. You can embody aspects of the Quintessences—Time-form, Mind-form, Energy-form, Void-form, Matter-form. These are masks, forms you can assume to bend the Veil around you."
Finally, he leaned forward, eyes scanning the room. "Masters proceed to Veilbinders, binding Quintessences into reality, then to the final stage: Veilbreakers. Only then can one tear through reality itself—transcending existence. But beware: rejection or imbalance leads to madness and death."
The students shivered. Gareth simply watched, absorbing every word. Every stage mirrored struggles he had faced, every paradox a reflection of his own turmoil.
Professor Veyris's words hung heavy in the hall. Dualism Spectrum… balance or conflict.
From somewhere near the middle rows, a student whispered too loudly, unable to stop themselves.
"Wasn't that the stage Shalkeer reached… before he stopped the moon?"
The room froze. Quills paused, breaths held. The name carried weight, like ash in the lungs. Shalkeer—the Warrior of Demons, the butcher of legions.
Veyris's amber eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. "Silence." His voice cut through the tension. "That name is not to be spoken carelessly."
Yet the damage was done. Dozens of eyes drifted, almost instinctively, toward the back of the room—toward Gareth. Fear, suspicion, awe, all mingling in the silence.
Gareth's hand clenched around his quill. He felt it then—like static crawling under his skin, the air trembling at his presence. The floating diagram at the front of the hall flickered, lines bending, warping. His ink bled across the page, twisting into shapes not his own, glyphs humming faintly before dissolving into smoke.
No one else seemed to notice—except Kael Draven. From the shadows of his corner, Kael's eyes narrowed, jaw set. He had seen it.
Professor Veyris's gaze lingered a moment too long on Gareth. His expression gave nothing away, but something flickered there—a recognition, a calculation.
Then he straightened, continuing his lecture as if nothing had happened.
"Control… is the essence of survival. Those who cannot balance the Veil will be consumed by it."
The hall remained heavy, as though the whisper of Shalkeer still lingered in the air.
Gareth sat back, silent, his heart steady despite the storm around him. They'll keep staring. Let them.
But deep down, beneath the weight of fear and whispers, a question gnawed at him—
"Why did the Veil react to me?"
The air refused to settle. Whispers slithered through the hall despite Professor Veyris's command, hushed voices trading glances and half-formed rumors.
"Did you see the diagram flicker?"
"No, that was just the spell weakening—"
"Liar, I saw his book glow."
"Don't look at him. Just—don't."
Each word sharpened the boundary around Gareth, carving him further apart from the rest of the students.
Professor Veyris raised his hand again. Golden light pulsed from his palm, washing the hall in silence. "Enough. If you cannot focus on knowledge, you will never reach beyond ignorance." His tone was calm, but the edges were cold, cutting.
He turned back to the hovering diagram, his voice steady. "The Veil does not bend to fear. It bends to will. Some of you will awaken the Root and never pass beyond it. Others will scrape against the Spectrum and be broken. And a rare few…" His gaze, deliberate this time, landed on Gareth. "A rare few will unsettle the Veil simply by existing."
The class inhaled sharply. Gareth did not flinch, but his jaw tightened.
Eamon Veyre leaned across his desk, muttering just loud enough. "Unsettle the Veil? He unsettles the whole damned Academy." A few nervous laughs followed, quickly smothered when Gareth's eyes flicked their way.
Lyric Thalorne's lips pressed into a firm line. Her quill hovered over parchment, but she hadn't written a word since the name Shalkeer was spoken. She studied Gareth with sharp calculation, part admiration, part caution.
Kael Draven's stare never wavered from the back row, as if measuring each flicker of light that bent too close to Gareth.
Professor Veyris let the tension hang a moment longer, then lowered his hand. The diagram dissolved into motes of light that drifted away like ash on the wind.
"For now, theory will suffice. Tomorrow, you will place theory aside. The first practical session begins at dawn." His amber gaze swept the room once more. "Be prepared. The Veil does not wait for hesitation."
The silence that followed was heavier than any applause.
As students began to pack their tomes and quills, their whispers rose again—quieter this time, but laced with the same fear. Every step Gareth took as he left the hall felt like it carried that weight, the echo of Shalkeer's shadow following him out into the Academy corridors.
The lecture ended, and the tide of students surged toward the doors in chattering waves. Gareth lingered, letting the crowd flow past. When he finally stepped out, the Academy's towering spires gave way to a sprawling city that seemed to breathe magic with every stone.
Dawn crest capital was alive. Floating lanterns drifted lazily between rooftops, casting ripples of light across the canals that wound like veins through the streets. Merchants shouted from gilded stalls where charms glowed faintly in their hands—trinkets that promised protection, luck, or forbidden glimpses beyond the Veil.
Children ran barefoot through alleyways, chasing illusory birds conjured by bored apprentices. A street performer coaxed fire into shapes of lions and serpents, his audience throwing coins with wide-eyed delight. Above them, banners rippled in the warm breeze, painted with the royal crest of the Dawn Throne.
But beneath the color, Gareth sensed the cracks. He noticed the beggars pressed into shadowed corners, their palms outstretched as nobles in polished robes passed without a glance. He heard the harsh clang of armored patrols, their helmets hiding faces as they marched in rigid formation. And further down, in the market's underbelly, the glow of illegal spellcraft burned too brightly—deals whispered in hushed tones, wards etched into stone where no guards dared wander.
The city was beautiful, yes—but it was sharp too, like glass meant to dazzle and cut in equal measure.
Gareth walked slowly, his boots echoing against cobblestone streets. The whispers from the Academy still clung to him, but here, beyond the gates, a different kind of whisper stirred. Vendors lowered their voices as he passed. A ward-maker at her stall muttered a prayer. Even outside the classroom walls, the shadow of his presence stretched wide.
Yet despite it all, Gareth felt a strange calm. The world was vast, complex, ugly and wondrous all at once. And if the Academy was a forest of sharpened eyes, this city was a maze of hidden teeth.
He adjusted his cloak and kept moving, weaving through the crowd until the spires of the Academy disappeared behind him. Tomorrow would bring the first trial—but tonight, he belonged to the city.
The streets deepened as Gareth wandered further from the spires. The polished stone gave way to narrow alleys, where lanterns burned lower and the hum of magic grew wilder, less regulated.
He passed a small tavern where voices spilled into the street. The door swung open, and laughter mixed with the bitter scent of smoke. A group of apprentices clustered around a scarred soldier, his voice loud, his hands gesturing as though he still held a blade.
"Dualism Spectrum," the soldier barked, slamming his mug on the table. "That was all he ever reached. And still, Shalkeer carved through armies like parchment. They called him the Eclipse Butcher for a reason."
The apprentices shuddered, some leaning closer, others shrinking back.
A younger boy whispered, "But how? Stage Two can't bend the moon…"
The soldier's eyes narrowed. "Don't waste your life thinking stages decide power. Shalkeer proved the Veil bows to will before it bows to rules." He leaned back, voice lowering. "That's why even the Archmages feared him. He wasn't the strongest. He was the most certain."
The tavern quieted for a heartbeat before laughter erupted again, nervous and uneasy.
Gareth lingered at the threshold only a moment, the words curling into his thoughts, before moving on.
The city stretched endlessly—markets lined with flickering wards, fountains where coins glimmered beneath enchanted water, alleys painted with sigils that pulsed faintly in the dark. Everywhere, whispers traveled: rumors of eclipses, of rising dangers, of names best left unspoken.
By the time Gareth found himself standing at the edge of the upper district, night had draped its veil over the capital. The Academy's spires glowed faintly in the distance, gilded in moonlight.
Tomorrow, dawn would drag him back to the lecture halls, to the eyes and whispers and trials. Tonight, the city itself felt like a lesson: dazzling, dangerous, and alive with secrets.
He adjusted his cloak and stepped into the shadows, determined to learn them all.