The training yard stank of sweat and churned earth. First-years stood in ragged lines beneath the morning sun, wooden practice weapons in hand, their faces pale but defiant. The air buzzed with whispers—rumors of what Professor Veyra's "test" would demand, of who might rise among the five, and who might vanish into obscurity.
A shout cut through the tension. The overseer, a broad man with arms like oaken beams, barked orders, sending pairs clashing together. Wooden swords cracked. Shields splintered. The yard filled with the raw, graceless noise of children trying to become warriors.
Gareth watched from his place at the back, his eyes hooded. He could feel the tension coiling tighter in every student, each one desperate to prove they were not "prey."
Beside him, Cassiel Draemond forced a smirk.
"Pathetic," he muttered, gesturing at a boy who had dropped his blade after a single strike. His voice carried bravado, but the twitch of his jaw betrayed him. Sweat beaded at his temples faster than the heat could justify.
A noble youth swaggered past, overhearing.
"Strange words from someone hiding in the back," the boy sneered. His friends laughed, circling Cassiel like jackals.
For a heartbeat, the mask nearly cracked. Fear flickered in Cassiel's eyes before he covered it with a scoff.
"Back? No. I'm simply waiting for someone worthy enough to fight me." He adjusted his robe with exaggerated nonchalance, but his knuckles were white around his practice sword.
Gareth glanced sidelong at him, lips curling into a faintly sarcastic smile.
Still pretending, huh?
The clash of wood and the echo of laughter swelled around them, the academy already shaping into a battlefield long before the official test began.
The clash of wooden blades rang on, punctuated by yelps and curses. Gareth's gaze drifted past the circle forming around Cassiel, past the scattered pairs clashing in the dust. He spoke low, almost to himself, but Cassiel caught it.
"You do know this is just one class out of ten, right?" Gareth's tone was dry, edged with that familiar sarcasm. "We're not even at the top. Sixth position. Middle of the pack. Half the academy already thinks they're better than us."
Cassiel stiffened. "Sixth? That's… not true."
"It is," Gareth said, eyes narrowing on the sparring yard. "The nobles made sure the order was posted on the Hall's board last night. They like reminding us where we stand." His voice carried no bitterness—just a cold fact.
The circle of mocking nobles hushed for a moment, some exchanging uneasy glances. Even the boy who had taunted Cassiel earlier faltered, uncertainty creeping into his smirk.
Cassiel swallowed hard, his bravado faltering before he straightened his back again.
"Sixth or not," he said louder, forcing confidence into his words, "I'll rise higher. We'll rise higher."
The nobles laughed again, though less easily than before.
Gareth just watched, silent, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips
The sparring yard rang with jeers. Cassiel stood his ground, defiant beneath the sneers of the noble-born first-years who circled him like hounds.
"You think you're worth the trials?" one boy sneered. "Your whole class barely scrapes by. You're nothing."
Cassiel's fists clenched. He opened his mouth, but Gareth's voice cut through before he could speak. Calm. Even. Unshaken.
"Sixth," Gareth said.
The laughter stuttered. Heads turned toward him.
"What?" the noble jeered.
"Our class," Gareth continued, tone flat, eyes never leaving the sparring circle. "Out of the ten first-year classes in the commoners' department… we're sixth." He let that hang for a beat, his words dropping like stones into water.
Some of the commoners brightened, shoulders squaring — sixth wasn't bad. It meant they weren't weak, not entirely.
But Gareth wasn't finished. His eyes, dark and steady, swept the nobles who were listening now.
"Factor in the noble department, though…" His lips quirked into something that wasn't quite a smile. "We're sixteenth."
Silence fell, heavy and sharp.
The commoners' pride cracked. Even Cassiel froze, his throat working as he tried to find a retort. The nobles, however, burst into laughter — loud, cruel, triumphant.
"Sixteenth!" one crowed. "You hear that? Even the Eclipse's stray can count!"
Cassiel bristled, but Gareth only leaned back against the post, arms folded, unmoved by the noise. His voice cut clean through their mockery.
"Doesn't matter where you start. Only matters where you end."
The laughter faltered, just slightly, as his eyes lingered on them with a calm that felt almost like a threat.
The nobles' laughter finally broke apart as the bell rang for lunch. Students filed toward the hall, voices buzzing with gossip about Professor Veyra and the looming trials.
Gareth shoved his hands into his pockets and drifted toward the courtyard edge. Cassiel followed at his side, smirking.
"You know," Cassiel said, "you could've let me handle that back there. I was about to deliver a scathing retort. Something like… 'sixteenth place still looks down on you from the tower window.'"
Gareth arched a brow. "Mm. Yes. Very cutting. You'd have them weeping in their wine."
Cassiel narrowed his eyes. "Mockery doesn't suit you, Valven."
"On the contrary," Gareth said, deadpan, "it's one of my natural talents."
For a moment, the tension bled away into quiet laughter. The nobles peeled off toward the dining hall, leaving Gareth and Cassiel trailing behind.
At the threshold, Gareth stopped.
"Go on. I'll catch up later."
Cassiel blinked. "What, skipping lunch for brooding in the shadows again?"
Gareth smirked faintly, then turned down the opposite corridor without another word. Cassiel watched him leave, caught between annoyance and something harder to name.
He muttered to himself, low enough that no one else could hear:
"…Damn it. He actually makes me better."
Cassiel flexed his hand, recalling the way Gareth had shut the nobles down with nothing more than calm words. He hated admitting it — but sparring against Gareth's blunt honesty, his sarcasm, even his silence… it was sharpening him.
"He's forcing me to train harder," Cassiel whispered, jaw tight, as though admitting it out loud was some kind of betrayal. "And one day… I'll be the one dragging him forward."
The bell tolled again, and Cassiel strode into the hall, shoulders squared, mask back in place.
The cafeteria buzzed with the roar of hundreds of voices. Platters clattered, laughter rolled across long tables, and the smell of roasted meat mingled with fresh bread and spiced broth.
Gareth sat alone near the edge, a tray of food before him. He ate slowly, quietly — each bite tasting of ash more than flavor. Around him, students joked, argued, compared notes. It felt like another world entirely.
For the first time that day, Gareth allowed himself a small, somber smile. To anyone watching, it looked like nothing. But inside, a familiar presence stirred.
You look pathetic among them.
The voice slithered into his mind like smoke, rich and dark. Umbrael.
Gareth's hand froze around his cup. You always pick the right time to show up, he thought back.
Time? The chuckle was a ripple across black water. I am beyond it. But… your timing has given me something of worth.
Gareth set his cup down. His pulse quickened. Information?
On the Mark, Umbrael whispered, and the words wrapped around him like chains of shadow. Its nature. Its tether. And why it was carved into your flesh.
The clamor of the cafeteria faded, voices and laughter dimming into nothing but background noise. Gareth leaned forward, elbows against the table, his food forgotten.
Then tell me, he demanded in the silence of his mind. Tell me everything.
Umbrael's laughter was soft, cold, patient.
Oh, little pawn… you will hear it. But not all at once. Truth is best fed in pieces, lest it choke you.
Gareth's jaw tightened. He set his fork down, fingers curling against the wood of the table.
"You forget yourself," he said inwardly, his tone cold and sharp. "I don't expect disobedience from you."
The air around him seemed to dim, though no one else in the cafeteria noticed. The Mark on his arm flared, lines of heat searing through his veins. Gareth pressed his will into it — the connection twisting, binding.
Umbrael's laughter cut short. A hiss followed, the shadows in his voice cracking like brittle glass.
"You dare—"
"I command," Gareth snapped, every word laced with authority he barely understood but wielded like a blade. "And you obey."
The void itself seemed to shudder. Umbrael's form, somewhere beyond sight and stars, writhed in pain — tendrils of shadow snapping against unseen chains.
"Enough!" Umbrael's whisper was strained now, torn from him. "Release me!"
The Mark pulsed again, burning in Gareth's flesh. For a moment, Gareth felt the weight of control — heavy, intoxicating, dangerous. He had leashed something ancient, and it bowed, however unwillingly.
At last, he exhaled and loosened his grip. The fire in his arm dulled, the cafeteria noise rushing back around him.
Umbrael's voice returned, quieter, venomous but edged with something new — respect, or perhaps caution.
"Very well, little master. You want the truth? Then you shall have it. The Mark you bear is not a gift. It is a shackle… and a key."
Gareth picked up his fork again, calm as if nothing had happened. But his heart still pounded. He had punished a god, and for the first time, Umbrael had yielded.
Umbrael's words lingered, heavy as lead in Gareth's mind.
"…too young. Too untempered. Power without strength does not make you mighty. It makes you hollow."
The fork trembled slightly in Gareth's hand. He set it down again, staring at his reflection in the sheen of the plate. His own eyes looked back at him, shadowed by doubt.
"…I'm sorry," Gareth whispered inwardly, his voice low, almost fragile. "I shouldn't have pushed like that."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then a dark chuckle stirred, but quieter than before.
"Apologies… from a master to his servant? Strange boy. Stranger still, that you mean it."
Gareth exhaled, a faint, almost tired smile tugging at his lips.
"I don't want to become like the others. If I have to command you, I will… but I won't lose myself to it."
Umbrael's reply was softer, like smoke curling through cracks in stone.
"Kindness in the heart of the one who bears me… Perhaps that is why you still stand."
The Mark pulsed once — not in pain, but in acknowledgment. Gareth picked up his fork again and ate in silence, the cafeteria's noise wrapping around him like a distant tide.
The scene blurred, the sound of clattering plates and laughter fading into a hush.
Sunlight spilled through tall glass panes, painting the academy's upper wing in gold. Lyra sat alone at her desk, her quill unmoving above the parchment. Her eyes — once the soft gray of clouded skies — now shimmered faintly, an unnatural sheen she hadn't noticed until she caught her reflection in the ink's surface.
Something was wrong. She could feel it.
Across the room, Tyla Nyx traced idle circles on the edge of her book. The usual bright spark in her had dulled. Even when their eyes met, there was no warmth — only a quiet distance neither of them could explain.
"Why… are we even friends?" Tyla's voice slipped out before she could catch it, low, almost brittle.
Lyra blinked, her quill scratching the parchment without thought. She didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked at Tyla, then at her own hand, as if searching for something missing. A memory that should have been there… but wasn't.
"I… don't know," Lyra finally admitted, the words tasting strange on her tongue.
Her gaze flickered to the window, her reflection staring back with those unsettling, shimmering eyes. "But something feels wrong. As if we've forgotten something."
Neither spoke after that. A silence stretched between them, heavy and unshakable.
Two girls sitting side by side, unsure why they ever were.
Lyra's strange eyes lingered on Tyla. Tyla's fingers froze on the book's edge. For a long moment, they just stared at each other, searching for something that wasn't there.
Finally, Tyla shook her head, forcing out a half-smile.
"Nah."
Lyra let out a short breath that might've been a laugh, though it carried no joy.
"Nah."
Without another word, the two rose from their seats, walking in opposite directions. The silence they left behind was heavier than any argument. "Bang"