The dormitory halls of the academy stretched long and cold, lined with flickering lanterns that hummed faintly with runes. The five walked in silence, their footsteps echoing louder than they should have. The weight of the Mirror Chamber trial clung to them like a second skin.
Behind them, scattered groups of students lingered in corners, whispering. Not loudly enough to be heard clearly, but just enough for words to slither through the air.
"...the silent one... didn't falter, but didn't save anyone either..."
"Cold eyes. Heartless."
"Strange, isn't it? Why would the Circle keep someone like that?"
Kieran's ears twitched at the last part. He spun on his heel, pointing at the whispering cluster. "Oi! Say it louder, why don't you? My friend here's not deaf!"
Lyra groaned, tugging at his sleeve. "Don't, Kieran. That's exactly what they want — more drama."
"But they're talking about him," he said, jerking his thumb at Caelum.
Caelum walked on without flinching. His face unreadable, his steps steady.
Jace clicked his tongue. "Ignore them. They'll choke on their own words soon enough."
Amara's gaze flickered toward Caelum. His shoulders were rigid, too rigid, though he didn't say a word. She wanted to reach out, but something in his stillness warned her off.
The whispers followed them like shadows.
"Heartless..."
"Empty..."
"Doesn't belong..."
Unceasingly.
Kieran finally broke the heavy silence with an exaggerated groan. "Well, aren't we the academy's favorite gossip? If they keep staring, I'll start charging tickets."
Lyra smirked, slipping into her usual sarcasm. "Oh yes, starring: Kieran the Clown, Jace the Flaming Rooster, and Caelum the Stoic Statue."
"Excuse me —" Jace started, scowling.
But for once, Kieran didn't rise to the bait. His eyes darted to Caelum again, worried, though he tried to cover it with a lopsided grin.
The laughter was thin. Hollow. The weight of the whispers clung to them even as they reached their dorm wing.
The dorm doors opened with a low creak, spilling warm lamplight into the corridor. Inside, their quarters looked nothing like the cramped cabins of the ship. The rooms branched from a wide common hall, furnished with long tables, couches draped in woven fabric, and walls marked by old banners that smelled faintly of dust and age.
"Okay," Kieran said, dramatically collapsing onto the nearest couch, "I claim this spot as my throne. Whoever sits here will be forever cursed."
Lyra rolled her eyes and smacked his shoulder with the bread basket she still carried. "Your throne looks like it's about to eat you alive. Sit properly."
Amara smiled faintly at the exchange but her eyes were elsewhere — on Caelum, who lingered at the threshold. He didn't move in, didn't claim a seat. Just stood, his expression unreadable as ever.
Jace swaggered past him, tossing his pack onto a chair with more force than necessary. "Finally. A room worthy of me. About time they gave us something decent after all that mist and nonsense."
Lyra arched a brow. "You mean after you nearly tripped over your own fire in the Chamber?"
Jace shot her a glare, his smirk twitching. "That was strategy. Controlled retreat."
"Uh-huh," Kieran snorted. "If that was controlled, I'd hate to see you panic."
"Careful, water-boy," Jace said, eyes narrowing, "don't make me steam you."
"Steam me? That's the best you've got?" Kieran grinned, already summoning a bubble of water in his palm. "At least when I mess up, it looks funny. You just scorch the air and hope no one notices."
Lyra clapped slowly, enjoying the sparks. "Ah, nothing bonds a group like fragile egos."
Amara's voice, soft but steady, cut through the rising tension. "We shouldn't fight each other. The academy is watching us more than we realize."
Her words made the others pause.
Caelum, silent until now, finally stepped forward into the room. His gaze swept over the group, then the corners of the ceiling where faint runes pulsed. "She's right. Even here, we're not alone."
That unsettled them more than Amara's calm reminder.
Before Kieran could joke it off, a knock rattled the door. Lyra moved first, pulling it open — only to find three older students standing in the hall. Their uniforms gleamed with silver-thread trim, marking them as higher-ranked.
The one in front, a tall boy with sharp features and neatly tied black hair, smirked as his gaze swept over the five. "So these are the new Circle candidates. Hm. Thought you'd look... stronger."
Jace straightened instantly, fire sparking at his fingertips. "Careful. First impressions matter, and yours is already terrible."
The older boy's smirk deepened. "Bold. But bold doesn't mean worthy. The Mirror Chamber exposed more than you think. Some of you crack easy. Some of you hide behind jokes. And some —" his eyes slid to Caelum, "— don't seem to have a heart at all."
Kieran bristled. "Hey —"
But Caelum's stillness silenced him. No glare. No retort. Just silence, heavier than any word.
The boy chuckled, turning on his heel. "Enjoy your stay. Let's see how long your little circle lasts." His companions followed, their laughter echoing down the hall.
The door shut. The silence after was sharp, edged.
Kieran muttered, "I hate that guy already."
Jace's flame still flickered in his hand. "He won't last long once I —"
"Stop," Caelum said, finally speaking. His voice was low, controlled. "That's what they want. To break us from the inside."
For a second, everyone just stared. Then Lyra exhaled. "Well, look at that. The statue speaks wisdom."
But even her joke couldn't loosen the tension. The cracks were showing — pride, sarcasm, silence. And the academy was watching, always watching.
The dorms quieted with the weight of their new reality. By nightfall, the lamps along the corridors dimmed of their own accord, leaving only cold moonlight streaming through arched windows.
A faint hum pulsed through the walls — a reminder of the wards that sealed them in. A plaque near the stairwell had engraved words glowing faintly:
"Curfew: at the third bell. Breaking the veil brings consequences."
Kieran squinted at it, frowning. "Consequences like what? A slap on the wrist?"
"No one knows," Lyra said, pulling her blanket tighter. "But apparently, a student vanished last year. They say the walls claimed him."
Kieran laughed uneasily. "Great bedtime story. Thanks."
The whispers only grew thicker. Other initiates, seen only in passing, spoke of restricted wings, of punishments that left no marks but carved fear, and of a silent hierarchy where family names either shielded or doomed you.
Jace's smirk returned at that. "Hierarchy? About time something here made sense. Some of us are built for the top."
Lyra rolled her eyes. "Keep telling yourself that, prince."
In his room, Caelum sat apart from the chatter. The rules etched into stone stirred something hollow inside him. Heartless, they used to call him. He could almost hear it whispered again now, carried in the draft that seeped through the cracks of the dorm walls.
Heartless. Cold. Empty.
But the truth pressed harder than the insult. His mother's voice — soft, fleeting, and gone too soon — slipped through memory. He wondered if hiding himself so deeply was a shield… or a slow death.
A knock interrupted the silence. Kieran poked his head in, grin faintly apologetic. "Hey, just checking if you didn't turn into ice in here. We need you tomorrow, y'know."
Caelum didn't answer. But Kieran left a crooked smile behind, as if to say I see more than you think.
The night stretched on. The five lay in separate rooms, yet the academy's weight pressed equally on all of them. Just before sleep could settle, a faint whisper curled through the hallways — not from lips, but from the very stones themselves.
"Bloodlines will be tested next."
The words slithered into their ears, impossible to ignore.
The next morning, bells tolled in sharp succession — four strikes that vibrated through their bones. Doors swung open on their own, urging every initiate down a long, spiraling stair that seemed to sink beneath the academy.
At the end waited an archway carved with shifting runes. Its inscription pulsed like a heartbeat:
"Know not your power until you know yourself."
A hush fell over the circle. Lyra muttered, "That doesn't sound ominous at all."
The five stepped through — and the world fractured.
Caelum blinked, and suddenly he was alone. No voices. No friends. Only a silver hall, endless and repeating. Each wall shimmered like water, yet when he moved, it showed a version of him that wasn't quite his own.
A boy with softer eyes. A son who had a mother still alive. A Caelum who laughed easily, touched shoulders, smiled without walls.
The reflection whispered, This could have been you.
He clenched his fists. "That isn't me."
But the glass didn't break.
Elsewhere, Kieran stumbled through a mirrored passage where every reflection mocked his grin, then twisted it into loneliness. Lyra walked halls where her sharp tongue was met with silence, her words bouncing back unheard. Jace saw himself standing beside his brother's towering shadow, no matter how tall he tried to stand.
And Amara — her path revealed nothing. No taunt, no twist. Only a mirror too fogged to show her at all.
A disembodied voice thundered, low and steady:
"Your strength lies not in what you show, but in what you hide. Do you dare to see?"
Caelum's reflection leaned forward, lips moving in perfect sync with his own. Yet the whisper cut sharper than any blade:
"You are empty without her."
His chest tightened — anger, grief, fear, all tangled together. He lashed out, fist striking the glass. The mirror rippled like water but did not break.
In the distance, a scream echoed. Not his. Someone else from the circle.
The scream faded into silence. One by one, the five were pulled from the mirrored halls, spat back into the same chamber where it had begun. The floor glowed faintly, runes reshaping into a circle beneath their feet.
None of them spoke at first. Their faces told enough.
Kieran's usual grin was gone, replaced by a tight jaw. Lyra's hands shook, though she tried to hide them by brushing her hair back. Jace burned with restless energy, sparks flickering at his fingertips like his body couldn't contain the weight of what he'd seen.
Caelum stood still. Silent. But Amara noticed — the way his shoulders tensed, the faintest shadow in his eyes.
The voice returned, resonating from the stone itself: "You have glimpsed yourselves. This is the foundation. Trust, or be broken."
The light vanished. The room opened into a corridor leading back to their dorm halls. No further instructions. No explanations. Just silence.
Finally, Lyra let out a strained laugh. "So… that was fun. Traumatizing, but fun."
"Speak for yourself," Jace muttered. His tone was sharp, but not aimed at her. His pride was cracked, and he hated it.
Kieran shoved his hands into his pockets. "We're still alive, right? That counts as a win." But his eyes didn't match the words.
Amara stepped forward, her voice soft yet steady. "We don't have to talk about what we saw… but maybe we shouldn't keep pretending, either. Not with each other."
Her words didn't fix the fractures. But they dulled the edge of silence.
For the first time, Caelum looked at her — really looked. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't forcing anything. She was just there, holding the pieces none of them wanted to admit were breaking.
"Invisible heart," Lyra whispered under her breath, almost as if naming her.
Amara didn't answer. She just walked toward the corridor, trusting the others to follow. And somehow, they did.
But as they stepped back into the halls of the academy, voices whispered from unseen corners:
"Bloodlines will be tested next. Only the worthy remain."
The five froze. No one knew who spoke. The words echoed like a curse.
Their gathering ended not with laughter, but with a silence that pressed heavier than any trial the academy had thrown at them. Pride lingered in Jace's eyes, a quiet ache haunted Caelum's stillness, Lyra's sharp tongue hid her unease, and even Kieran's grin faltered. Only Amara tried to hold the frayed thread together, though she felt it slipping through her fingers.
Then, the bells of the Great Hall echoed through the corridors — low, commanding, impossible to ignore. A summons none could escape.
On the walls, a carved inscription burned faintly red:
"Blood remembers. Blood decides."