Kael Draven had never cared much for the murmurs of his peers. Nobles whined, commoners gossiped, and teachers pretended the Academy was a place of harmony when, in truth, it was a battlefield made of words and glances. But now… now all the whispers bent around a single name.
Gareth.
The boy who had walked through the gates as if the world itself parted for him. The boy who carried calamity like a shadow. The boy who, in Kael's eyes, had stolen his father.
From the far edge of the courtyard, Kael had watched him settle into solitude like it was second nature. The distance people gave Gareth didn't surprise him; power like that always demanded fear. What surprised Kael was the way Gareth carried it. No arrogance. No smirk. Just silence, like a blade still sheathed but ready.
Kael hated that silence.
His father, Xenta Draven, had lived by steel and fire, by the creed that strength meant standing tall and never yielding. And yet, his father's name was now tangled with Gareth's, whispered as if the boy had written the final line of Xenta's story.
Kael's jaw tightened. "You don't deserve his shadow," he muttered under his breath, unseen behind a pillar.
Classes continued like nothing had changed. The Academy's lectures filled the air with theories of magic, diagrams of the Veil, and hopeful chatter about future glory. But Kael heard none of it. His eyes kept drifting, unbidden, to the boy in the back—the quiet storm that had unsettled the balance of the Academy.
Even in silence, Gareth commanded the room. Not with words. Not with force. Just… presence.
And presence, Kael realized, was more dangerous than power.
As the day drew to a close, Kael leaned on the railing overlooking the cityscape beyond the Academy walls. Sunstead stretched out in golden light, bustling with trade and laughter, blissfully ignorant of the tensions brewing inside the Academy.
He thought of his father's voice, steady and commanding: "Names carry weight, Kael. Protect ours, even when I'm gone."
Kael clenched his fists.
If Gareth was fated to be at the center of this Academy's storm, then Kael would not sit idly by. He would not let his father's name be overshadowed.
Not by Gareth.
Not by anyone.
And so, beneath the fading sun, Kael made his quiet vow: to stand, to fight, to ensure that when history remembered these years, the name Draven would not be forgotten.
The lecturer's chalk screeched across the slate, drawing the glyph for Dualism Spectrum.
"Remember," the teacher said, "this stage is not simply about raw strength. It's about balance, about recognizing the self in the reflection of the world."
A hush fell over the room. Students scribbled furiously, but Kael leaned back in his chair, arms folded, eyes narrowed in that way that suggested amusement rather than focus.
"Balance," Kael muttered just loud enough to carry. "That word gets thrown around so often you'd think it could pay its own tuition."
A ripple of laughter stirred. The teacher glared. "Draven, if you'd like to contribute—"
"Oh, I am," Kael replied smoothly. He tilted his head toward the chalkboard. "We speak of balance as if it's about harmony, but isn't it really about control? The Academy trains us not to be whole, but to be manageable. The Veil doesn't care about harmony—it devours the weak and crowns the clever."
His voice carried with cutting precision, each word sharpened. A few students nodded, others frowned, but none ignored him.
From the back, Gareth sat motionless.
Kael's eyes flicked toward him—just for a heartbeat—and then away again. "Some of us are content to sit silent and pretend balance is a noble goal. Others of us intend to master the scales and set the weights ourselves."
The teacher cleared his throat, annoyed, but couldn't quite dismiss the logic. "Be careful, Draven. Philosophy is no substitute for discipline."
Kael smirked. "Discipline without philosophy is just obedience, sir."
Silence again. A few students exchanged wide-eyed looks. One whispered: "He sounds like his father."
Kael heard it. He always heard it. His smile faltered, but only for a moment. Then he leaned back, mask fixed, as if he'd meant to unsettle everyone all along.
The courtyard was nearly empty. Lanterns flickered against the stone walls as students drifted back to their dorms.
Kael walked alone, cloak drawn tight, when he caught sight of a younger boy struggling with a pile of books. The boy tripped, papers scattering across the cobblestones. Other students passed by without pausing.
Kael sighed. "Pathetic."
He knelt anyway, scooping the papers into a neat stack. The boy blinked, surprised.
"You— you're Kael Draven," the boy stammered.
Kael handed him the stack. "Sharp observation. Maybe next time you'll notice the curb before it notices you." His tone was cutting, but his hands were steady, careful not to wrinkle a single page.
The boy clutched the books, bowing his head. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Kael said, already turning away. "Just don't waste the chance to walk upright. Some of us no longer have fathers to steady us."
The boy didn't understand, but others would've seen it clearly—the same protective instinct his father, Xenta, had once been known for. It slipped through Kael's armor of bitterness in moments like this, uninvited, undeniable.
When Kael reached the far end of the courtyard, he paused and muttered to himself:
"Father would've carried the boy the whole way. I… I can't. Not yet."
And then he walked into the shadows, mask snapping back into place.
The door creaked on old hinges as Kael pushed it open. Dust greeted him first, swirling in the thin shaft of moonlight that cut across the floorboards. The house was quiet — too quiet. It always was.
Once, this place had been warm. His father's laughter used to fill the small rooms, rough and booming, even after battle left him bruised. But that warmth had died with him. And his mother… well, she hadn't even waited for the ashes to cool.
Kael set his pack down by the wall, the sound echoing like a stranger in his own home. His eyes lingered on the cracked picture frame still hanging crooked above the hearth. It showed three faces once. His father's broad grin, his mother's sharp beauty, and Kael's younger self — smiling in a way he hadn't for years.
He tore his gaze away.
The betrayal was still raw. His mother's absence was worse than death; death could be mourned, but abandonment lingered like poison. She had left with whispers of a "new life," leaving him with a legacy too heavy and a home too empty.
Kael sat at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with his finger. "A warrior's son," they all called him. But no one saw the hollow spaces. No one heard the silence at night.
And yet, despite everything, there was something stubborn inside him — a flicker of his father's spirit. That was why he helped the beggar on the road. That was why he couldn't walk past the broken and the hungry without stopping. Maybe he hated his father for dying, and hated his mother for leaving… but he couldn't kill the part of himself that still wanted to protect.
Outside, the village lamps were being doused one by one. Darkness crept in. Kael leaned back in his chair and let out a bitter laugh, the sound bouncing off empty walls.
"Some legacy," he muttered. "Some home."
But he didn't rise. He just sat there, staring into the dark, waiting for a tomorrow he wasn't sure would be any different.
Kael couldn't stand the house any longer. The silence pressed too heavy, so he slipped outside, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of wet earth. The streets were almost empty, lamps guttering out one by one until only the pale light of the moon lit his way.
He walked with no destination. Just steps, one after another, hoping they'd carry him far enough from the weight inside his chest.
Then, ahead, he spotted a figure. Leaning against the old stone wall at the edge of the street. Alone. Head bowed, as if carrying his own private storm.
Gareth.
For a moment Kael froze. The quiet boy, the one who said so little in class, standing there in the same emptiness Kael had just run from. It was almost ridiculous — the person he resented most… was looking just as alone as him.
Kael's instinct was to sneer, to break the silence with something sharp. But the words caught in his throat. There was no crowd here, no classroom, no audience for his sarcasm. Just two shadows under the moon.
He stepped closer anyway, boots crunching softly on the gravel. Gareth didn't move, but his eyes flicked up, calm, unreadable as always.
Kael shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, forcing a crooked grin. "Hah. Figures. Even the quiet kid can't stand being indoors tonight."
Gareth didn't answer. He only held Kael's gaze, steady, like someone who wasn't afraid of silence.
That irritated Kael — and unsettled him at the same time. Because for the first time, he saw it clearly: they were the same. Two boys with nowhere to belong, walking the night to escape homes that weren't homes.
Kael looked away first, his grin fading. He clicked his tongue, muttered, "Tch. Whatever," and leaned on the wall a few steps away from Gareth.
The night stretched on. No words. Just two shadows standing side by side in their loneliness, while the world turned dark around them.
Kael broke the silence first.
"You look worse than I feel," he muttered, not cruelly, but with the tired honesty of someone too used to his own pain.
Gareth almost laughed. "That bad, huh?"
Something unspoken passed between them—a quiet recognition. Both carried scars invisible to others, both walked without company, both haunted in ways no teacher's lesson could mend.
For the first time, Gareth didn't feel completely alone.
And Kael, watching him, wondered if maybe this boy—hated, cursed, yet still standing—wasn't so different from himself.
The silence cracked when Kael's voice sharpened.
"What happened on the battlefield? Why did you come back alive when the others didn't?"
Gareth's chest tightened. His hand brushed over the faint mark on his arm. He could've lied. He should've. But his voice came out steady, almost resigned.
"I got scared. I ran."
Kael's blood boiled instantly. His jaw clenched, words spilling before he could stop them.
"You—coward. You left them to die while you tucked your tail and ran?" His voice rose, shaking with fury. "You're weak! You should've been the first to fall, not them!"
In Kael's mind, images flared: his father's stern eyes, his father's death, the empty house, the endless gnawing ache of betrayal. And this boy… this boy dares to breathe while braver men lie in the ground?
Kael's magic surged, sparks flaring at his fingertips. He didn't think—he simply let it spill. Blades of light seared into the air, arcing toward Gareth.
Gareth staggered back, heart racing. Not again. Not here. The curse burned in his veins, a dark hum that whispered temptation. He raised his arm, shadows leaking from his skin, twisting to form jagged claws of energy.
The alley filled with clash and chaos—Kael's brilliant arcs against Gareth's unstable darkness. Each blow rattled the ground. Gareth fought desperately, his movements clumsy, his power wild and unrefined.
Kael's anger made him sharper, more precise. His light cut through the shadows, tearing them apart. Gareth's knees buckled. He hit the cobblestones, gasping, the dark energy flickering and collapsing.
Kael stood over him, chest heaving, fists glowing with light. His eyes burned with hatred and something deeper—grief disguised as rage.
"Don't you ever pretend you understand pain. You don't deserve to walk among us."
Gareth said nothing. Only the curse pulsed faintly, as though mocking him in silence.
And for the first time, Kael wondered if striking him down had felt too easy.
Kael's magic fizzled out, but his rage burned hotter than fire. He looked down at Gareth, beaten and trembling.
"You're pathetic," Kael spat, his voice breaking with raw fury. "I hate you. I hate everything you stand for. You should've died out there instead of them."
The words pierced sharper than any blade. Gareth didn't lift his head. His chest heaved, shadows crawling weakly across his arms before fading.
Inside, his thoughts whispered like a confession:
He's right. I ran. I failed. I don't deserve their respect. I don't deserve forgiveness. Maybe I don't even deserve to live.
The silence that followed wasn't peace—it was punishment. Gareth's body ached, but the weight in his chest hurt far worse. He didn't fight Kael's words. He let them settle, heavy and unmovable, like stones on his shoulders.
And as Kael turned away, leaving him in the cold quiet, Gareth could only murmur in his heart:
I deserve this.
Far from the school's quiet grounds, in the crumbling ruins of an ancient watchtower, another student wandered alone. The boy's lantern flickered against broken stone and twisted vines, his breath shallow with both fear and curiosity.
His boot struck something half-buried in dust. A slab—no, a tablet—etched with symbols that pulsed faintly as though alive. He crouched, brushing away the dirt.
The markings were old, jagged, carved in a language no ordinary scholar could read. But one sign repeated again and again—the same twisted sigil burned into Gareth's skin on that cursed battlefield.
The student's pulse quickened. Words shimmered faintly across the stone as if awakening at his touch. He read them under his breath:
"The Mark is no curse. It is a gate. Each eclipse, the gate opens, and what is bound beyond shall answer."
His eyes widened, horror and fascination mingling.
So Gareth's burden… isn't a punishment. It's a key.
The lantern sputtered, and the ruins seemed darker, as though shadows themselves were listening.
The student's lips trembled as he traced the glowing sigil, his mind racing with what this revelation meant. If Gareth is the gate… then the eclipses—
A sharp crack echoed. He froze. The lantern flame wavered.
From the shadows of the ruin, a figure stepped forth—hooded, masked, robes marked with intricate patterns that seemed to writhe in the dim light.
The boy opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. A hand, gloved in black, pressed against his chest. The symbols on the tablet flared once… then his body collapsed, lifeless, his eyes wide with the terror of what he had seen.
The hooded figure lingered, gazing at the corpse with calm detachment. Then, almost like a ritual, they whispered:
"The gate must remain hidden. The truth must not awaken too soon."
Others emerged from the dark corners of the ruin—more figures, cloaked and silent. Together, they lifted the tablet, wrapping it in seals and chains.
They belonged to an ancient order whispered only in fragments: The Eclipse Covenant.
Unlike the kingdom, unlike the knights, unlike the academies—this organization had no interest in protecting the world. Their motive was different, darker, and yet strangely precise. They didn't want to destroy the gate.
They wanted to control it.
As they disappeared into the night, leaving the boy's body behind, the ruins fell silent again—except for the faint hum of the sigil, as if it still remembered the hands that once touched it.
The Eclipse Covenant was not born yesterday. Their roots stretched back centuries, to the First Eclipse—when the skies split and shadows descended on the earth. While kingdoms rallied warriors and priests to fight back, the Covenant chose another path: understanding.
They believed eclipses were not divine punishments nor random calamities but designed cycles—cosmic laws etched into existence itself. To them, every eclipse was a message, every monster a fragment of a larger truth.
The Covenant's hierarchy was built like the eclipses they studied:
The Umbra — the inner circle, faceless leaders hidden in perfect shadow.
The Penumbra — scholars, assassins, and seekers who roamed the world for artifacts, tablets, and cursed marks.
The Veilbearers — the lowest initiates, tasked with silence and obedience, sworn never to speak of what they witnessed.
Their motive was clear yet dangerous: to harness the gate, to bend the curse into a weapon. Not for conquest—though kingdoms feared that—but for what they called "The Alignment": a moment when eclipses would converge, unlocking the boundary between realms.
In their doctrine, the world Gareth had been dropped into was only one thread in a tapestry. Behind the eclipses lay another layer of reality, and the Covenant sought to break through, to touch the architects of existence itself.
And yet, to the common folk, their name was just a whisper. A bedtime curse. Don't go out during an eclipse, or the Eclipse Men will take you.
The boy who had found the tablet had not been their first victim. Nor would he be the last. Every artifact, every cursed mark, every scrap of forbidden knowledge—was theirs to claim, theirs to silence.
And somewhere, among their inner council, whispers had already begun:
"The gate walks among us now. The boy with the Mark survives still. His eclipse will be ours."
The sun rose pale and thin, as though reluctant to shine after the night's heaviness. Gareth stirred awake on his rough bedding, his body sore, his mind heavier still. The echoes of Kael's words — pathetic, weak, coward — gnawed at him, more biting than any wound.
He forced himself up. He had promised himself he wouldn't waste another day sulking in shadows. Not when the mark burned faintly on his skin, as if whispering that time was running out.
Outside, the academy grounds were alive with morning clamor: students rushing to lectures, mages sparking light in their palms, swords clashing in early drills. For all their noise, Gareth felt apart from it, walking like a ghost among them. Heads turned, some sneered, others whispered. His name, already carrying the weight of battlefield shame, now seemed to trail him like a curse.
He ignored it. Or at least, pretended to.
Today, instead of training halls or lessons, Gareth's feet carried him further — toward the outskirts of the city where the air was quieter, where cobblestone gave way to dirt paths. He needed space to breathe, to think.
The memory of the battlefield returned in flashes — the monsters, the screams, the mark burning into his flesh. And then Kael's hatred poured over it like salt on an open wound.
But amidst that storm, one thought lingered: If this mark is tied to the eclipses… then I need answers. Not from teachers. Not from soldiers. From the world itself.
He had no plan, no map, no certainty. Only the restless pull of something greater calling him onward.After a while he returned back with quiet steps.
For Gareth, the next day was not about survival in the academy. It was about stepping into a wider world — dangerous, hostile, and filled with secrets he was no longer sure he wanted to uncover.
The academy courtyard was alive with voices. Students gathered in little knots, whispering, trading rumors, throwing glances toward Gareth as though he were a walking stain on the stone.
Kael stood among them, arms crossed, the words "pathetic coward" still echoing from the night before.
Gareth walked through their stares like he felt each one was a dagger. His steps were slow, but not timid. For once, he didn't bow his head.
A group of older students stepped forward, sneering.
"Run away again, curse-boy? Or will you betray us next eclipse, too?"
The laughter that followed was sharp, cruel, and loud enough to fill the courtyard.
Gareth stopped. The air seemed to thin. Everyone expected him to shrink back, to escape like always.
But instead, he turned. His voice was steady, quiet enough that they had to lean in to hear:
"I did run. I won't deny it. I was afraid. I still am. But if fear makes me a coward—" his gaze swept the courtyard, sharp as steel "—then so are all of you. You just haven't faced the choice yet."
Silence. Not one laugh. Even Kael's eyes flickered.
Then Gareth walked past them without flinching.
For the first time, he hadn't won through strength. He hadn't fought back with fists or magic. He'd won with truth. A truth too sharp for anyone to answer.
And in that moment, Gareth wasn't the coward of the eclipse. He was the boy who spoke the words everyone else feared to admit.
The bells of Dawncrest Academy rang, their iron chime carrying across the halls. Students turned as a figure in crimson robes stepped onto the stage of the main hall — Instructor Velas, the man known for his strict, almost merciless ways of teaching. His voice cut through the hush:
"Students of Dawncrest, hear this. Tomorrow, you will face your first true test."
Murmurs rippled instantly. Some eager, others anxious.
"This test will not be of strength alone, but of wit, resolve, and discipline. A single day is all you have to prepare. Fail, and you will not remain here. Pass… and you may yet call yourselves worthy of Dawncrest."
The words struck like thunder. No one laughed now. No one dared. The room was thick with tension, ambition, and fear.
Somewhere in the back, Kael's eyes narrowed.
In the corner, Gareth clenched his fists.
For both, tomorrow would change everything.