The forest was too quiet.
The campfire spat out sparks and painted the brothers' faces in restless orange light, but beyond that, the woods were silent. No insects. No owls. Only the sound of Ezagone poking the flames with a stick as if it were a stubborn classmate refusing to hand over notes.
"You know," Ezagone said, voice casual but his eyes fixed on his brother, "I'm really starting to feel like the third wheel in my own life."
Zethra blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. First, you sprout wings like a dramatic gothic swan. Then, you've been muttering to yourself like a deranged prophet for days. And now—" He gestured at the space across from him, where Amethyst had been moments earlier, legs crossed, crimson dress glimmering like embers. "Now, I can see her, which I guess is not supposed to be possible. And she looks at me like I'm dessert. Do you have any idea how traumatizing that is?"
Zethra stiffened. The fire cracked.
"She shouldn't be visible to you," he said finally, low and sharp. "She's… not for mortal eyes."
Ezagone snorted. "Mortal? Brother, we're the literal definition of not normal. You can't play that card on me anymore." He jabbed the stick into the fire, sparks leaping like miniature fireworks. "And don't dodge. Who is she?"
Before Zethra could answer, the air grew heavy. The shadows lengthened, bending unnaturally toward the fire. And then—she was there again.
Amethyst.
Her dress was liquid scarlet clinging to curves that seemed designed to mock mortal restraint. Her lips curved into a smile that could melt glaciers, her long hair cascading like silk. The firelight wasn't just reflecting off her—it bent toward her, as though reality itself wanted to worship.
"You're asking the wrong questions," she said, voice a velvet purr. Her eyes flicked to Ezagone, and for once, the teasing lilt faltered. "Interesting. I still can't believe you can see me."
Ezagone gulped. "See you? Lady, you're basically burning holes into my retinas."
Amethyst laughed, rich and musical, leaning forward as though she enjoyed his fluster. Zethra's hand clenched into a fist.
"Ezagone," Zethra warned, "don't engage with her. She thrives on—"
"Chaos? Drama? Sibling arguments?" Ezagone raised his hand theatrically. "Check, check, and check."
Amethyst tilted her head, studying Ezagone with curiosity that made Zethra deeply uncomfortable. "You shouldn't be able to perceive me," she said softly, almost to herself. "Even awakened devils can't. Fascinating…"
"Stop talking about him like he's a specimen," Zethra snapped.
Her smile returned, languid and sly. "Protective, as always. Relax, darling—I have no desire to harm your little brother." Her eyes gleamed as they cut back to Ezagone. "In fact, he may be more important than either of you realize."
Zethra's stomach sank. "What do you mean by that?"
Amethyst stood gracefully, her scarlet gown whispering like flames against the forest floor. She leaned close to Zethra, whispering against his ear: "The hunters are near. If you wish to survive, you'll need more than wings and stubbornness. You'll need sanctuary. And there's only one place left in this world where even angels tread lightly."
Ezagone leaned forward, eyes wide. "Don't leave us on a cliffhanger, lady in red. Where?"
But Amethyst only smirked, pressed a finger to Zethra's lips, and dissolved into crimson smoke. The woods brightened again, as though she had taken half the shadows with her.
---
The next morning, Ezagone wouldn't let it go.
"So," he said around a mouthful of stale bread, "do we just casually ignore the part where your personal devil-crush suggested I might be important? Or do we dig into that before the next round of monsters tries to roast us?"
Zethra shot him a glare. "She's not my—" He stopped, exhaling. "Forget it. Amethyst thrives on twisting truths. Don't take her words at face value."
Ezagone grinned. "Uh-huh. That's what someone with a secret girlfriend in another dimension would say."
Zethra ignored him, rolling up their sleeping mat. But deep inside, Amethyst's words gnawed at him. Only one place left…
They moved through the forest that day with quiet urgency. Zethra scanned constantly, wings itching beneath the seal. He could feel it—Aetherion surging faintly in the air, like ripples before a storm. Hunters were closing in.
It was Ezagone who spotted the man first.
At the edge of the clearing, a cloaked figure sat on a fallen log, whittling wood into shapes that caught the light. He looked like nothing special—a traveler with worn boots and a weary face—but the instant his eyes lifted, Zethra felt the hair on his neck rise. The man saw them. Truly saw them.
"You carry it openly," the stranger said, voice rough as gravel. "Aetherion."
Ezagone froze mid-step. "Uh, Zethra? Why does random hobo number three know our secret word?"
The man set down the wood carving and pulled back his hood. His hair was silvered at the temples, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but there was a faint shimmer in his gaze—like starlight contained.
"I was once like you," he said. "Half-blood. Hunted. Cornered. Until I found the Academy."
The word hung heavy in the clearing.
Zethra narrowed his eyes. "Academy?"
The man nodded. "The Academy. Hasn't got a name, just The Academy, hidden where mortal eyes can't wander. Angels, devils, hybrids—all who carry may train there, under truce. It is no paradise, but it is sanctuary."
Ezagone's mouth dropped open. "So you're telling me there's an actual magic school, and you waited this long to bring it up?!"
The man's expression hardened. "Do not take it lightly. It is no place for the weak of will. But if you remain out here, you'll be dead within weeks."
He reached into his cloak and drew out a small object—a sigil etched into obsidian, pulsing faintly with silver light. "This is a key, to the academy. Find any body of water and drown the key in it, And the gates will fall open before you. But know this: the Academy demands everything. Once you enter, you will not return unchanged."
He pressed the sigil into Zethra's palm and stood. "I cannot linger. Eyes are already on you."
And just like that, he was gone—vanishing between trees as though swallowed by mist.
---
That night, as they camped again, Ezagone couldn't contain himself.
"An academy," he said, pacing around the fire. "A real academy. Do you know how long I've been waiting for this? Zethra, it's perfect. A place with other people like us, food that isn't dried bread, and—" He grinned. "Probably girls."
Zethra pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're impossible."
"Don't act like you're not curious," Ezagone shot back. "Don't you want answers? About our Father ? About why I—" He stopped suddenly, swallowing hard. "About why I can see her."
The fire crackled. For once, Ezagone wasn't joking.
Zethra looked at his brother, really looked at him—the boy who could laugh in the face of monsters, who had followed him without hesitation even into danger.
"You're right," Zethra said softly. "We need answers."
Ezagone grinned, relief spilling across his face. "So it's settled. Academy, here we come."
But Zethra's hand tightened around the sigil, his heart heavy. Because Amethyst's words echoed still, sweet and poisonous: Even angels tread lightly there.
And he couldn't shake the feeling that stepping into that sanctuary would change everything—whether they were ready or not.
Thing was, there was a lake a couple of miles ahead.