The blood hadn't even dried on the marble floor when silence swept through the Academy.
Students shuffled back, their eyes wide, their whispers sharper than blades.
"Did you see him? He wasn't fighting—he was tearing."
"No one moves like that unless they've lost themselves."
"He's not one of us. He's cursed."
Even the professors did not step forward. Their gazes lingered on the three twisted corpses, then on the boy who had made them that way. Gareth stood still in the center of the arena, chest heaving, fingers trembling, dark energy fading from his veins. He could feel their eyes, feel their disgust, feel the distance between him and everyone else growing wider by the heartbeat.
Kael's fists clenched at his sides. He had come here to despise Gareth, to prove his weakness. But what he saw now was not weakness. It was monstrous. Terrifying.
He remembered his father's voice, deep and steady: "A warrior protects. A warrior does not lose himself."
And then he remembered Gareth's eyes—wild, broken, unblinking. Kael's jaw tightened. Hatred still burned, but beneath it was something worse: fear.
Far beyond Dawncrest, beneath a forgotten ruin, cloaked figures gathered around a glowing tablet. Its inscriptions shimmered with a pale red light, as though alive.
"The Mark of the Eclipse," one voice whispered.
"The curse that summons not beasts, but the Harbinger of Thrones," another added.
The leader, hooded in gold-trimmed black, raised his hand. "Good. Then the boy has awakened it. The chain begins to rattle. Soon… the throne will fracture, and order will fall. We will be ready to seize what comes next."
Their laughter echoed like cracks in stone.
Gareth's Night
Gareth sat alone in his dormitory room. No lamp lit, only the faint moonlight spilling through the window. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. His mind replayed every scream, every slice, every splatter of blood.
They're right. I'm no better than those creatures.
The mark on his arm pulsed, faintly glowing with a sickly light. He covered it with his hand, gritting his teeth.
Captain Ryn's words drifted into memory: "Courage isn't not being afraid, boy. It's fighting anyway."
But tonight, Gareth didn't feel courageous. He felt like prey waiting for the next hunter.
At midnight, the bells of the Academy tolled. A voice, magically amplified, rang through the halls:
"By decree of the Crown, the next trial begins in three days. This time… beyond the walls of Dawncrest."
Students stirred with dread. Beyond the walls meant true danger, a test where failure meant death.
Gareth's mark burned like fire under his skin. He clutched his arm, panting. Something inside him whispered, "Run."
But something deeper answered back, "No. Face it."
The chapter ends with Gareth's silhouette against the moonlight, the curse glowing faintly, the path ahead uncertain—yet unavoidable.
The Academy's courtyard was quiet in the morning. The fountains bubbled, birds nested along the carved stone, but the students gave the center of the courtyard a wide berth. Gareth sat there anyway, hunched forward, his elbows on his knees.
The whispers hadn't stopped since yesterday.
"Monster."
"Murderer."
"He shouldn't even be here."
He tried to block them out, but the weight pressed harder with each passing hour.
Bootsteps interrupted the silence. A girl with short auburn hair and sharp green eyes stood in front of him, arms crossed. She wore her uniform loosely, the crest of Dawncrest half-tucked, as if rules didn't matter to her.
"You fight like a beast," she said flatly.
Gareth tensed, ready for another insult. But instead, her lips curled into the smallest smirk.
"…That's why you survived."
He blinked at her, unsure how to respond.
She dropped down to sit beside him, ignoring the glares from the others.
"Name's Lyra. I'm not here to play noble games. I don't care if they call you cursed."
Gareth frowned. "Why not?"
"Because I've seen worse."
Her tone was sharp but not unkind. A flicker of something haunted hid behind her eyes, like she too carried shadows no one else could see.
"You don't have friends here, do you?" she asked, leaning back on her palms.
Gareth scoffed softly. "Not exactly."
"Well, that makes two of us." She grinned, tilting her head. "Everyone thinks I'm trouble. Maybe I am. But I'd rather sit with a so-called monster than those cowards whispering behind our backs."
For the first time since the trial, Gareth let out a small laugh. Rough, unpolished, but real.
From across the courtyard, Kael watched the exchange. His jaw tightened. Why him? Why would anyone choose to stand beside him?
He turned away, anger boiling in his chest, but underneath it all… there was something else. A flicker of doubt.
As the bells rang for class, Gareth rose. Lyra rose with him, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Relax. I'm not here to save you, Gareth. But maybe… we can make the rest of this nightmare less lonely."
For the first time in days, Gareth felt the suffocating weight ease—just slightly.
Lyra leaned back against the roof tiles, her silver hair swaying in the breeze. She wasn't smiling—not exactly—but her presence felt less like mockery now and more like… anchor.
"You'll learn," she said softly, staring up at the stars. "Pain doesn't go away. It just… changes shape. If you're smart, you use it. If you're weak, it uses you."
Gareth turned his head, studying her. She looked calm, but her clenched fists told another story.
"You sound like someone who's already chosen," he said.
Lyra's eyes flicked to him. For a second, the mask of sarcasm dropped.
"I don't get the luxury of choice. Neither do you."
The words struck deeper than any blade. Gareth thought of the mark burned into his chest, of the whispers, of Kael's voice calling him pathetic. And yet, here was this girl—marked in her own way, fighting the same shadows.
"…You're not wrong," he muttered.
"Of course I'm not," she shot back instantly, the sharpness returning. "I'm always right. You'll get used to it."
He gave her a side glance, unimpressed. "Arrogant."
"Confident," she corrected.
Despite himself, a faint huff of air escaped Gareth's throat. Not quite laughter, but close. Lyra tilted her head, noticing, and grinned in triumph.
"There it is," she said. "See? You're human after all."
Gareth rolled his eyes and looked back at the night sky. But deep inside, something flickered—like a tiny ember where only ash had been before.
The academy bells echoed again, signaling curfew. Students were expected back in their dorms. Lyra stood and brushed dust off her clothes.
"Come on, Cursed Boy. If you get caught sneaking up here, they'll blame me."
He raised a brow. "Didn't know you cared."
"I don't," she replied quickly. Then, with a sly grin: "But you're too depressing to leave alone. You'd probably throw yourself off the roof out of guilt or something."
"…You're insufferable."
"And you're welcome."
They climbed down together, the silence between them less heavy than before.
The next hour was nothing but jabs, insults, and sly comebacks.
"You walk like an old man," Lyra snorted as Gareth climbed down from the roof.
"Better than tripping over my own feet like you did earlier," Gareth muttered.
"That was strategy," she shot back instantly. "I was testing gravity. It passed."
He gave her a blank stare. "Brilliant. You should be a scholar."
"Better than being a sulking curse magnet," she grinned, poking his arm. "Seriously, you brood so hard the air gets heavier around you."
"And you talk so much the gods themselves probably pray for silence."
Lyra gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Did the great Cursed Boy just attempt humor? Someone write this down—it's historic."
"Pathetic," Gareth said flatly, but his lips twitched despite himself.
They walked through the quiet corridors, exchanging little strikes like blades clashing—not to wound, but to test, to measure, to prove they were alive.
At one point Lyra snuck a pebble from the floor and flicked it at him. It hit his shoulder.
"Bullseye," she said proudly.
"You're insufferable."
"Already said that. Find new material."
"Fine. Annoying."
"Still old material."
"…Gremlin."
Lyra laughed, an actual laugh, unguarded and bright. "Now we're getting somewhere."
By the time they reached the dorm halls, Gareth was shaking his head, but the tension in his shoulders was gone. The whispers, the looks, the weight of the curse—it was still there, but dulled. For the first time in a long time, someone had managed to cut through it.
Before slipping into her room, Lyra gave him one last grin.
"Don't die tomorrow, Cursed Boy. If you do, who am I supposed to annoy?"
"…Goodnight, Gremlin," Gareth muttered.
Her laugh echoed down the hall as the door shut.
And in the silence that followed, Gareth realized something startling—he was almost looking forward to tomorrow.
The dawn bells rang across Dawncrest, pulling the academy from its fragile sleep. Sunlight spilled through the high glass windows, glinting off banners of gold and silver, each one bearing the crest of the Royal Academy. Students gathered in the courtyard, voices buzzing with nervous anticipation—today was the day of the test.
Gareth stood at the edge of the crowd, eyes heavy from a restless night. Yesterday's banter with the girl lingered in his mind—not because of her teasing, but because it was the first time he'd felt… normal. Almost human. Almost free.
Kael, however, stood not far away, arms crossed, his gaze locked on Gareth with quiet hostility. He hadn't forgotten the battlefield confession. His presence alone was enough to make Gareth's chest tighten.
The instructor stepped forward, robes flowing with authority, and raised his hand. The courtyard fell silent.
"Today's test," he announced, voice echoing, "will not be a mere display of strength. You will be placed into an illusion—a world shaped by your fears, regrets, and the shadows of your soul. Survive, and you may advance. Fail…" His eyes swept the crowd, hard and cold. "…and the academy will not save you."
A ripple of unease passed through the students. Gareth's stomach clenched. An illusion? A world of shadows and regrets? He already knew what awaited him there—the battlefield, the screams, the eclipse.
The girl from yesterday nudged his arm with a mischievous grin.
"Don't look so grim," she whispered. "What's the worst that could happen?"
He gave her a sideways glance. "You really want me to answer that?"
She only smirked.
The instructor lifted a tablet carved with ancient runes. One by one, the names of the students lit up, glowing faintly. Gareth saw his own shimmer, the mark of fate pulling him toward the test.
"Step forward," the instructor said. "And face what lies within."
The first student stepped forward, trembling as the runes on the tablet pulled him in. His body went rigid, eyes rolling back, until only the faintest shimmer of light wrapped around him. The courtyard hushed.
Moments later, he gasped and collapsed forward—sweat-soaked but alive. The instructor nodded in approval. "Pass."
Relief rippled through the crowd.
A girl followed next, confidence painted across her face. Her illusion seemed to stretch on longer than the first. When she finally stumbled out, she was pale but smiling faintly, tears streaking her cheeks. She whispered something about "forgiving her brother," before the instructors quietly recorded her as having passed.
Then came the third. A boy with noble insignias sewn into his uniform. He entered the illusion, but almost instantly his face twisted in terror. His hands clawed at his own skin as though unseen flames burned him alive.
"Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!" he screamed.
Before panic spread, one of the teachers—a silver-haired mage—thrust his staff down. Blue runes flared, shattering the illusion around the boy. He fell limp, sobbing, clutching his chest as if something had been ripped from him.
"Failed," the instructor said, voice cold but not unkind. "But he lives."
Another stepped forward, this one a sharp-eyed girl. At first, her illusion seemed stable. But then her screams echoed through the courtyard. Her skin blackened, veins glowing with a corrupt shimmer. She began to morph, the corruption threatening to spill into the waking world.
This time, three instructors moved at once. Chains of light, seals of fire, and a barrier of sound crashed around her, locking her in place until the illusion collapsed with a shattering boom. She fell unconscious, body twitching, but she breathed.
A hush swept over the students.
The instructor's eyes hardened as he spoke.
"Let this be your warning. The test reveals not only strength, but weakness. Some of you will pass, some will fail—but you will not hide from yourselves."
His gaze shifted. "Next."
And the runes glowed—this time with Gareth's name.
Kael stepped forward, his jaw clenched tight, the faint scar of bitterness still etched across his eyes whenever they lingered on Gareth. He pressed his palm to the cold stone tablet, and the runes flared to life.
The courtyard blurred.
Kael found himself standing in a quiet village—his home. He could hear the laughter of children, the hammering of the forge where his father once worked. For a moment, his chest ached with warmth.
But then the scene shifted. His father's corpse appeared, mangled and bloody, lying in the same forge where he'd taught Kael to shape iron. Shadows whispered around him, twisting voices taunting him with the same question over and over:
"Do you hate him for dying? Or do you hate yourself for living?"
Kael clenched his fists, heart pounding. His body trembled, not with fear—but rage.
He saw Gareth's face in the shadows. Gareth's cowardice. Gareth's retreat. The boy who had run while others bled.
"No… I am not like him," Kael hissed, summoning a surge of magic. Flames roared from his hands, burning away the shadows. His father's image flickered—not restored, but honored, the fire curling around the forge like a funeral pyre.
When Kael opened his eyes again, he was kneeling before the tablet, panting, drenched in sweat. But he was smiling faintly, tears streaming down his cheeks.
The instructor's voice cut through the silence.
"Pass."
Students murmured in awe. Kael stood, swaying, his eyes catching Gareth's for a moment. There was no kindness there—only the gleam of judgment.
And then—
"Next. Gareth."
The tablet's glow pulsed like a heartbeat, waiting.
Gareth's hands hovered over the cold stone tablet, the faint glow reflecting in his dark eyes. He inhaled sharply, feeling the weight of every whisper from yesterday, every glare from the courtyard, every echo of Kael's judgment.
Before he could react, the world dissolved.
He was no longer in the academy. The ground beneath him was scorched earth, blackened by smoke. Screams clawed at his ears—shattered, distant, and horribly familiar. The battlefield. The eclipse. The corrupted students.
Gareth froze, chest tightening. Shadows twisted at the edge of his vision, taking the shapes of those he had failed, those he had run from. The mark on his arm pulsed violently, burning into his skin.
"Pathetic…" The whisper came from everywhere and nowhere. "Coward… murderer…"
He clenched his fists, dark energy curling around him like a living thing. Memories of fleeing, of the soldiers dying, of the monster he had been cursed by—all collided at once. The shadows lunged forward, shrieking.
Instinct took over. His body moved before thought.
Dark energy exploded from his veins, flaring across the battlefield. Shadows screamed as he struck them down—fast, brutal, efficient. He moved like a storm, each swing of energy tearing at the illusions, each strike punctuated by the echo of screams in his head.
And still, the battlefield pressed in. More shadows formed, more shapes twisted into the faces of those he had failed.
Gareth stumbled, breath ragged. He fell to one knee, clutching his arm where the mark burned, and muttered under his breath:
"I… deserve this…"
The shadows surged again, and he lashed out one final time, dark energy cutting through the illusions like a blade. When the light finally faded, silence fell.
He opened his eyes. He was back in the courtyard. The other students stared, a mixture of awe and fear in their expressions.
The instructors were silent for a heartbeat, then nodded gravely.
"Pass," one said quietly, almost as if granting him mercy rather than achievement.
Gareth didn't move. He could still feel the echoes of screams, the pulse of dark energy under his skin. Kael's eyes met his from across the courtyard—cold, unreadable—but Gareth didn't flinch. Not yet.
Lyra appeared at his side, smirking faintly. "You're full of surprises, Cursed Boy."
He only shook his head, muttering to himself, "I survived… again."
The courtyard went dead silent. Dust swirled around Gareth's boots, remnants of the dark energy still crackling faintly across his skin.
Students froze mid-step, mouths agape, some shaking in disbelief. Whispers clawed the air:
"Did… did he just survive that?"
"I—I thought he would die…"
Kael's hands tightened into fists. Every muscle in his body screamed in response—anger, jealousy, disbelief. His jaw flexed like steel.
"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath, though his eyes betrayed something sharper—shock, grudging respect, and confusion.
Lyra, on the other hand, leaned forward slightly, eyes wide but sparkling with mischief.
"See? Told you," she said, voice low, but her smirk betrayed her excitement.
Other students scrambled back, some bumping into each other. One girl tripped, sprawling across the cobblestones, eyes wide as Gareth's dark aura flickered faintly in the air. A boy muttered, "He's… unstoppable…" and no one contradicted him.
Even the instructors' usual stoicism wavered. Fingers twitched over staves, staffs hummed, but no one intervened. The raw energy radiating from Gareth demanded acknowledgment—passive, yet suffocating.
A shard of shadow still lingered at his feet, vanishing only as he moved, each step leaving an echo in the air, like the battlefield itself hadn't released him.
Kael's lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes never leaving Gareth. A storm of emotion—anger, judgment, and… fascination—swirled beneath his calm exterior.
Lyra tapped his shoulder lightly, almost daring him to react. "Not bad for a cursed coward," she teased, but her grin softened as she noticed the weight still in his stance.
From the back, whispers rose again, building into murmurs, building into awe.
"Cursed… unstoppable… survivor…"
And Gareth? He didn't speak. He didn't move much. He just let the reactions hit him, each one a wave—fear, admiration, resentment, curiosity—all crashing against the shell he had built around himself.
For now, that silence, that pause, that collective intake of breath—the reaction—was his battlefield. And for the first time in a long time, he let it wash over him, unshielded.
Kael's fists were clenched so tight his knuckles whitened. Every fiber in his body screamed—rage, frustration, jealousy. How could this cursed boy survive what he had faced? How could Gareth emerge, dark energy flickering faintly, and leave a trail of awe and fear in his wake?
"Pathetic…" Kael ground out through gritted teeth, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. But it wasn't just disgust—it was fury at himself, fury at the world, fury at Gareth for exposing all the weaknesses Kael thought he'd mastered.
Around him, students whispered, but Kael ignored them. All he saw was Gareth, breathing heavily, still trembling from the trial yet unbroken. His own pulse pounded in his ears, threatening to drown out everything else.
Lyra's teasing smirk didn't help. "Not bad for a cursed coward," she'd said. Kael's jaw tightened. That smirk… that casual confidence in the boy who should have fallen… it was unbearable.
"Why… why him?" Kael muttered under his breath, fists shaking. "He doesn't deserve this…"
Suddenly, a sharp voice cut through the tension. From the edge of the courtyard, a senior student, one of the instructors' advanced pupils, stepped forward, eyes glinting with a mix of awe and fear.
"Eradicate…" the student said, barely above a whisper, yet the word carried like a hammer across the courtyard.
Heads turned. The air shifted. Even Gareth felt it—the name of the technique, spoken like a promise of annihilation, sliced through the uneasy relief of survival and planted a seed of something far greater, far darker.
Kael's eyes narrowed, fury sharpening into something dangerous, precise. The next trial wouldn't just be about skill or courage… it would be about survival, and proving superiority.
Gareth didn't know it yet. Lyra didn't know it yet. But in the shadows of that whispered word, a storm was forming—one that would touch everyone in the Royal Academy, and beyond.
And the name hung in the air. Eradicate.