The bell of dawn tolled far above the mountain spires, its echo slipping like silver threads through stone and timber. In the Commoners' Hall, each student had been given a room—small, square, and plain, but a room of their own.
In one of them, Gareth Valven stirred.
The ceiling above him was cracked wood, the beams worn smooth by years of weather. No banners hung here, no gilded mirrors or carved columns like the nobles enjoyed across the mountain. Only a desk, a chair, and a narrow bed pressed against the wall.
He sat up slowly, the morning air cool against his skin. His face in the mirror was pale and unreadable. He did not look tired. Only still, as though carved from silence itself.
His gaze fell to the folded uniform laid neatly on the chair. Black from collar to hem, it seemed to swallow the pale light of dawn:
a stiff-brimmed cap that cast a shadow across the eyes,
a long-sleeved shirt cut sharp at the edges,
gloves as dark as ink,
polished shoes that gleamed faintly,
and finally, a trench coat—long, flowing, its chest stitched with a sigil in silver thread: the half eclipse.
Piece by piece, he put it on. The fabric was cold at first, then familiar, as though it belonged to him before he had ever touched it. When the coat settled across his shoulders, its weight was less than he expected. And yet… the burdens it symbolized pressed far heavier.
He caught his reflection once more, uniformed and shadowed. For a long time, he only looked.
A whisper escaped his lips, meant for no one but himself.
"I have no dreams."
The words hung hollow in the air, but they rang true. Where others looked upward with ambition, with fire, with hungers that stretched into the clouds, Gareth felt nothing of the sort.
"I don't want glory. I don't want crowns." His voice dropped lower, almost bitter. "All I have are unnecessary burdens… and a wish to survive."
The silence that followed was absolute.
At last, he set the cap upon his head. The brim dipped low, shadowing his eyes, sharpening his somber expression.
Then, without hesitation, he opened the door and stepped into the corridor, where other doors creaked open and other footsteps stirred. Voices whispered, excitement buzzed faintly through the halls. But Gareth walked quietly, the half-eclipse gleaming against the black of his coat.
To the world, it was only another uniform. To him, it was the weight of a fate he never asked for.
The corridor emptied into the courtyard, where the dawn's light spilled across stone and grass. Already, the first-year boys of the Commoners' Hall had gathered.
For the first time, Gareth saw them all together. Rows of black uniforms stretched before him—caps drawn low, trench coats flowing in the wind, half-eclipse sigils stitched across their chests. At a glance, they looked alike, as though the Hall had swallowed their names and spat them back as one body.
And yet, no two faces carried the same expression. Some shone with nervous anticipation, some burned with stubborn resolve, others trembled beneath the weight of fear they could not hide.
Gareth stood still, scanning them without a word. The sight pressed against him in a strange way. So many walking forward. So many wanting something.
Then the crowd shifted, murmurs rippling outward.
Cassiel Draemond had arrived.
Even among a sea of black, he glimmered like steel against shadow. His golden hair caught the light like the edge of a blade, his glacial eyes cutting through the air with cold precision. The smirk on his lips said what he did not need to: I am different. I am better.
The boys around him bristled, some glaring, others lowering their gaze. Even here, even dressed in the same black cloth, Cassiel carried himself like one born to rule.
Gareth's eyes met his.
For a moment, something passed between them—Cassiel's unspoken challenge, sharp and deliberate.
Gareth did not answer it.
Instead, he curved his mouth into a smile that was not a smile. He lifted his hand in a slow, almost careless wave, the gesture polite, even friendly.
But his eyes were empty.
Then he turned away. His boots struck the stone, carrying him past the crowd, past the murmurs, past Cassiel himself.
He did not wait for a reply.
The half-eclipse on his chest caught the light once more, then disappeared as he walked into shadow.
By the time the courtyard swelled with voices, Gareth was no longer among them.
The air around him rippled, and with a thought, his body rose soundlessly from the ground. Higher, past the tiled edges, past the creaking beams—until the school roof spread beneath him like a shadowed plain.
He touched down lightly upon the highest ridge, coat trailing behind him in the morning wind. From here, the world stretched wide.
Below, the first-years gathered in their lines. Black uniforms, black coats, sigils shining faintly like pale moons. Among them, girls spoke in hushed excitement, laughter carrying soft across the air. Some with ribbons woven into their hair, others with notebooks clutched tight to their chest. All of them full of nervous fire.
Gareth's eyes lingered only a moment before slipping away.
He sighed, shoulders lowering.
Dreams… they all have them. But me?
His gaze drifted farther, past the valley, where on the high slope of the mountain the Noble School towered—its spires flashing gold in the light, banners streaming proudly. Even from this distance, it gleamed like a world apart, untouchable.
His chest tightened, a dull ache he couldn't name.
And then—
The air behind him tore open like paper.
From the rift stepped a boy of shadows, silver-eyed, raven-haired. Umbrael. His bare feet made no sound as he crossed the roof and lowered himself to sit beside Gareth, legs dangling over the abyss as if it were nothing.
For a while, he said nothing. Only tilted his head, studying Gareth's silence.
Finally, his voice came, light but cutting.
"What's wrong, master?"
Gareth didn't answer at once. The wind played with his hair, tugging at the edge of his coat, filling the silence between them.
Then, without looking at Umbrael, he gave a small, dry laugh."Red hair this time, huh?"
Umbrael smirked faintly, the crimson strands of his borrowed form brushing across his cheek. "Do you prefer another?"
Gareth shook his head. "Doesn't matter." His voice sank low. "I just… I don't feel happy. Not anymore. I don't even have dreams."
His eyes slid shut, and the words tumbled out, softer, heavier."My captain… he died by my hands. Every night I see it again. Every time I close my eyes, I hear it again. And now, I walk into the woods, sit in the silence, just to keep myself from breaking."
The wind pulled at his words, carrying them into the open sky. Gareth's jaw tightened."I feel so damn bad all the time. And when I see people laughing—smiling, happy—it just makes me sadder. Because I know I can't be like that. Not anymore. And gods… I'm just tired."
For a long moment, Umbrael said nothing. Then, slowly, he reached out and placed a hand on Gareth's back. The touch was strangely gentle, steady as stone.
"I lost everything too," Umbrael murmured. "I kept changing… faces, voices, forms. Until I forgot the real one. I don't even know what I looked like anymore. Or who I was supposed to be." His silver eyes dimmed, distant. "I only know the shadows I wear. The lies. And maybe…" he paused, his voice thinning, "…maybe I'm taking a risk by being here. By being your friend."
His gaze shifted, sharp but soft all at once. "But I know you, Gareth. More than anyone ever will. And no matter what—I won't kill you. Not you."
Gareth blinked, staring dumbly at him, searching for words and finding none. At last, he muttered, "…You're not good at this."
For the first time, Umbrael's grin cracked into something warmer, less sharp. The two of them laughed—quiet, rough, but real.
The wind howled across the rooftop, carrying their laughter into the morning air.
And then.
The scene shifted.
Far above, in the ivory towers of the Nobles' School, Kael stood with a blade in hand. The courtyard shimmered with light, the eyes of heirs and daughters upon him. His heart thundered as steel rang in challenge.
His trial had begun.
Kael's boots ground against the courtyard stone as the trial began. He clenched his gauntleted fists, veins bulging, the earth itself shivering beneath him.
"Strength," he growled, voice carrying across the gathered heirs. "That's my gift. I can shatter walls, topple gates, crush men like twigs. I can even tear apart a mountain if I have to."
The ground cracked at his words—stone erupting into jagged pillars as if the world itself answered his will. Dust billowed, students shielded their eyes, and Kael stood there, framed by rising shards of earth like a war-god of old.
For a moment, awe swept the watching crowd. Some even gasped.
But then Kael's jaw tightened, and his tone lowered."…And yet, here—every single one of you are monsters. My power is nothing compared to what you hide."
The words barely left his lips before a voice cut in—calm, sharp, and cold.
"You speak of mountains as though they matter."
From the ring of noble students stepped a boy. Silver hair framed his sharp features, eyes like steel polished to a deadly sheen. He moved with unhurried grace, every step coiled with restrained violence.
"Mountains can be cut," the boy said. "Even gods can be bled."
He drew his blade in one smooth motion. Its edge shimmered with pale light, like moonlight sharpened into a weapon.
Kael lunged, the earth exploding beneath his stride, stone spears erupting in his wake. He swung with all the force of an avalanche.
The silver-haired boy barely moved. His sword whispered once.
Kael's blow never landed. Instead, he staggered—blood dripping down his arm, his weapon arm cut open before he even realized it.
The courtyard went silent.
The boy's eyes narrowed, cold and merciless."Remember this name," he said softly, as though it were a promise."Aelthar Veyne."
And with one final strike, Kael was defeated—cast to the ground, breathless, staring up at the pale-haired noble who stood like a blade given flesh.
The courtyard was still ringing with silence when Aelthar Veyne turned his blade—not back to its sheath, but forward, toward the next in Kael's group.
A girl, trembling but defiant, lifted her practice weapon to guard.
Too slow.
The silver-haired noble blurred forward, his strike a flash of moonlight. Her weapon shattered, and blood sprayed as his blade cut across her shoulder. She cried out, crumpling to the ground.
Gasps broke out among the students. A murmur ran through them like a wave.
Kael's teeth clenched, rage twisting his face. His hands dug into the stone floor as he pushed himself up. His voice, hoarse but thunderous, tore through the air.
"…Gareth told me to hold back."
The courtyard stilled.
Kael rose, blood dripping from his wound, his body trembling with fury. His gaze locked on Veyne—burning, unblinking.
From the crowd up to the roof, Umbrael stared and raised a single finger. His expression was empty, his tone flat.
"It'll take one shot to put him down."
Something inside Kael broke free. Veil energy surged from his body, cracking the stones beneath him, the air distorting with raw force.
He moved.
The world blurred. Sound itself shattered into a thunderclap as he broke the sonic boom, closing the distance between him and Veyne in an instant. His fist, wrapped in crushing power, screamed toward the silver-haired noble's chest—a blow meant not to wound, but to kill.
But it never landed.
A hand appeared between them. One finger—just one—pressed against Kael's fist, stopping the mountain-breaking strike as if it were nothing more than a child's punch.
The force howled, the air trembled, and yet… the man did not move.
The students froze, eyes wide, as they turned to see him.
A teacher. His coat fluttered in the windless air. His hair was dark, his face sharp and expressionless. And his eyes—both of them—burned with an unnatural red, cold and merciless.
His voice was steady, like a verdict."This is a training match. You are here to grow—not to kill your classmates."
He released Kael's fist, and the energy dispersed into the air like mist.
For the first time, Kael stumbled back—not from a wound, but from the sheer weight of the man's presence.
The teacher's gaze swept the courtyard, silencing every whisper."Remember this lesson. Pride and fury do not make you strong."
He turned back to Kael and Veyne, as if branding the words into them.
"I am Professor Draeven Crowholt. And if you cannot control yourselves… then I will break you myself."
The courtyard was silent. None dared breathe too loud.
Kael's fist never landed. His vision blurred, his chest felt like it was being crushed, and then darkness swallowed him whole. His body went limp, falling like a broken weapon.
But he did not strike the earth.
A hand—cold, unyielding—caught him by the collar. Professor Draeven Crowholt stood there, unmoving, crimson eyes burning faintly like twin coals in the shadow of his expressionless face.
The courtyard stilled.
Without a word, Draeven slung Kael over his back as if he weighed no more than cloth. Then, in the same motion, his other arm extended. He grasped the injured girl, lifting her effortlessly into his hold despite her muffled protests. Finally, his gaze cut toward Aelthar Veyne. The silver-haired prodigy sneered, but before he could even react, Draeven seized him by the shoulder. Veyne's body stiffened, powerless beneath that iron grip.
Three students—one unconscious, one wounded, one defiant—carried as if they were nothing.
The resemblance struck like lightning: Draeven's face, harsh and sharp-edged, carried the same bone-deep lines as Kael's. Older. Sterner. A shadow of what Kael might one day become.
Draeven's voice, low and steady, fell upon the courtyard.
"Training is over."
The words rolled like a tolling bell. "Go. Eat. Lunch."
The silence cracked into whispers. Students scattered in hurried waves, unable to hold his gaze for long, as though those red eyes could peel them open and see every secret buried inside.
Only Draeven remained, striding away with his burdens. His steps were measured, deliberate, the sound of inevitability.
And with him went the weight of the courtyard tightened.
Professor Draeven Crowholt.