The courtyard behind the East Tower was quiet at this hour. The evening bells had already rung, calling students to dorm blocks or late combat drills, and the air smelled faintly of rain clinging to stone.
Ren stood at the overgrown edge, ivy climbing the cracked walls, the world hushed except for the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. He shouldn't have been here. He should've been back in the dorms, pretending nothing was wrong. Pretending he hadn't heard that voice again.
But Lucien was here.
The boy stepped out of the shadows like he'd been part of them all along. His posture was calm—hands loose at his sides, coat falling in sharp lines—but his presence pressed against Ren like a weight. Not crushing. Just undeniable.
Their eyes met, and Ren felt his chest tighten.
"You heard it again," Lucien said. Not a question.
Ren swallowed. His throat was dry. "How do you—?"
Lucien's gaze flicked toward him, storm-gray and unblinking. "I can feel when Eidros notices something. And it noticed you."
The name rippled through the air like a cold wind. At the mention of Eidros, shadows curled faintly around Lucien's boots, twitching like restless tails before dissolving. Ren forced himself not to step back.
He clenched his fists instead. "What's happening to me?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately. He moved closer, the sound of his steps softened by damp grass. "Something old," he said finally. "Something most of the Academy wouldn't understand if you told them outright."
Ren frowned. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you without lying."
The words landed heavy.
For a long moment, they simply stood there—the quiet of the courtyard wrapping around them, ivy rustling faintly with the wind. Above, the Rift shimmered like a wound that refused to close, Riftlight leaking into the clouds and painting everything in bruised hues of violet and silver.
The voice inside Ren stirred again. Not like Eidros. Softer. Closer.
Why do you fear what you already are?
Ren stiffened. His breath caught, but he forced the words out. "It's talking to me again."
Lucien tilted his head. "What does it say?"
Ren hesitated. What if saying it out loud made it more real? His chest tightened. "That I'm not… awakening. That I'm remembering."
For the first time, Lucien's composure cracked—just slightly. His brows furrowed, his gaze sharpened. "Remembering what?"
"I don't know."
Lucien studied him for a long, silent moment. Then he murmured, almost to himself: "A soul-bond."
The word sent a chill down Ren's spine.
Before he could ask what that meant, a bell tolled faintly from the main building. Combat drills. Students gathering in the yard. Lucien glanced toward the sound, then back at Ren.
"You should go," he said. "If you skip, the instructors will start asking questions. And you can't afford their questions yet."
Ren wanted to protest. To demand answers. But Lucien's expression left no room for argument.
So Ren followed him back toward the Academy.
The training yard was alive with motion when they arrived—sparks of elemental power lighting the dusk, the crack of kinetic waves against practice dummies, the heavy thud of boots on the packed-dirt ring. The air smelled of sweat and ozone.
Ren drifted toward the bleachers, slipping into his usual place beside Ilya. His friend raised an eyebrow, pushing their visor up.
"You look like you saw a ghost."
Ren tried to smile. It came out crooked. "Something like that."
Ilya studied him for a second longer, then handed him a water flask. "Drink. You're pale."
Ren sipped, grateful for the distraction. But his gaze kept wandering—to the opposite side of the yard, where Lucien stood at attention with the advanced trainees. He hadn't looked back once. And yet Ren couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched anyway.
Instructor Varis barked orders, his voice carrying like a whip crack. Students sparred, powers flashing in controlled bursts. A gravity manipulator slammed his opponent into the dirt with a flick of his wrist. A lightning girl's strikes lit the air like fireworks.
Ren shifted uncomfortably. His chest still hummed with that strange inner pulse, like a heartbeat not entirely his own. He pressed a hand against his sternum, trying to steady it.
"You okay?" Ilya asked.
"Yeah," Ren muttered. "Just… on edge."
"You and everyone else," Ilya said. They gestured toward the sparring ring. "Rumor mill says that Riftbeast came after you on purpose."
Ren's stomach dropped. He forced a laugh. "People will believe anything."
Ilya didn't laugh. "Maybe. But you feel different, Ren. Like your shadow's heavier."
Ren went cold.
Before he could answer, a shout cut across the yard.
Two trainees had collided near the central ring—one of them Joren, a broad-shouldered kinetic who never missed a chance to throw his weight around. He'd shoved his sparring partner too hard, sending the boy sprawling into the edge of a reinforced prop. A sharp crack echoed. Blood spattered the dirt.
The boy screamed, clutching his arm.
Everything slowed. Students shouted. Varis strode forward. Someone called for med-tech.
And Ren… moved.
He didn't think about it. His legs carried him down the bleachers, through the cluster of students, to the boy on the ground. His knees hit the dirt.
"Stay back!" someone snapped.
But Ren was already reaching.
His fingers pressed against the boy's forearm, slick with blood. The skin was hot, trembling. The wound gaped ugly and raw.
And then—
Heat.
Not from outside. From inside Ren, bursting outward. A flood of warmth surged through his arm, into his palm, into the broken flesh beneath it. He felt it as if it were his own wound—torn, bleeding, aching. His breath hitched.
Then threads. Invisible but real. He felt them weaving, pulling muscle back together, knitting skin with impossible precision. The boy's cries stilled into ragged breaths.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Ren's vision blurred. His chest ached like he'd run for miles. His knees wobbled. But he didn't pull away until the wound was gone—only a faint scar left behind.
The boy stared at his arm in disbelief. "It… it doesn't hurt anymore."
Ren sagged back, dizzy. The taste of iron filled his mouth. His hands shook.
Above him, silence had fallen over the yard. Every student. Every instructor. All staring.
Except Lucien.
Lucien's storm-gray eyes were fixed on Ren, unreadable. But at his feet, the shadows writhed—Eidros stirring, restless, as if it wanted to reach across the space between them.
Ren's heart thundered.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Instructor Wrenna appeared at his side in an instant, tablet glowing with readouts. Her voice was calm but edged with urgency. "Elric. What did you just do?"
"I—" Ren swallowed hard. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do." Her gaze was sharp. "That was no accident."
Ren's stomach twisted. He opened his mouth, but before he could answer, that inner voice whispered again—steady, patient, almost protective.
You heal. You remember. The cost will come later.
Ren's hands curled into fists.
He wanted to scream. To run. To vanish.
Instead, he lifted his head—and found Lucien still watching him.
Their eyes met. And for just a heartbeat, Ren swore he felt it: a thread pulling taut between them, binding something deep inside.
The bond.