Night had fallen again, but the academy didn't sleep.
Lanterns glowed along the corridors, soft golden halos cutting through the dark. Patrols of instructors and sentinels moved with quiet urgency, their steps echoing faintly against stone. The first-year dorms were locked down, whispers of fear running through the walls like thin, restless currents.
Asher sat by his window, eyes half-lidded, gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
He had been there earlier — unseen, unheard — watching from the rooftops when the discovery was made.
He could still see it clearly in his mind:
The pale figure sprawled before his own door, the extremely dark crimson mark staining the tiles, the severed head layed beside the lifeless body.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"That's not right," he murmured.
For all the panic that followed, the scene itself hadn't been messy. No signs of struggle. No mana residue. No footprints leading away. Whoever did it had worked with surgical precision — quick, quiet, efficient. Or something else....
He closed his eyes and began to reconstruct everything.
The pool of blood had been thin, dried at the edges. That meant the killing had taken place hours before the discovery — ten, maybe eleven the previous night. The air had been dry, the temperature steady, so the rate of coagulation fit the timeline.
But that wasn't what bothered him.
He opened his eyes, the faint glint of thought flickering like starlight within the darkness.
"There wasn't enough blood."
Even a clean decapitation should have flooded the ground. But the pool had been shallow — smaller than it should've been for a human body.
He'd seen real executions before — even controlled ones left stains impossible to erase.
Which meant the student hadn't been killed there.
The corpse had been moved.
He rose from his seat, crossing to the desk where a single black feather lay upon the wood.
It was small — shorter than his little finger — but its texture was unnerving. Even in still air, the feather seemed to quiver, as though responding to something unseen.
He reached out, brushing it lightly. A faint chill ran up his fingers.
"You don't belong here, do you?" he muttered.
The shadow along the wall behind him shifted subtly, rippling like water disturbed by an invisible hand.
The Abyss stirred.
"You have questions," it whispered — a voice that wasn't sound, but a sensation. Cold, and seemingly infinite.
"I always do."
"Then ask. You know I'll answer you, my precious...."
Asher lifted the feather, turning it between his fingers. "Where did this come from?"
The shadows pulsed faintly, as though thinking. "Not from this realm of light and dreams."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning it carries no natural essence. It was forged — either by hand or by will."
He frowned. "A construct?"
"Not really. Honestly, I don't know what it is or where it came from but.... it has the mark left behind when something passes through the borders between realms."
He stilled, gaze sharpening. "Something crossed over?"
"If you concentrate you'll feel it. The frequency is not of our realm."
He concentrated his perception onto the feather. Then he noticed it.
It was vibrating. Not the feather itself, but the mana core that existed in every cell of the feather.
Asher had read about it before. That every living thing — everything that contained mana was vibrating at a particular frequency. But, this never became public knowledge because it was believed to be false. No one had ever felt or experienced these vibrations.
But from what Asher had just felt, it showed that the reason why the vibrations were never felt was because the entire realm moved at the same frequency.
The same way one couldn't feel the earth rotating, one can't feel the frequency of his own realm because the person is in that realm.
Everything in a realm moves at the same frequency.... even when not in it's realm.
He set the feather down carefully. His mind began to race through possibilities:
Teleportation magic was traceable. Shadow-steps left faint residue. Blood-binding spells required visible anchors. And yet, none had been found.
Which left only one conclusion — the killer had hidden the act not by masking mana, but by removing it entirely.
He leaned back against the desk, expression unreadable.
That explained the absence of traces. It explained why the sentinels' mana scans had failed to detect anything, even after combing the area. Whoever this was had done more than kill — they'd erased the evidence from the weave of reality itself.
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes again.
So then... who was the victim to deserve such precision?
And why now, right after the dungeon was sealed?
His mind turned the pieces like gears in a machine — the timing, the silence, the fear spreading through the first-years. The academy was being probed. Tested.
And someone was watching how they'd react.
His gaze drifted once more to the black feather. Its edges caught the faint moonlight, shimmering like oil on water.
He reached for it again, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "You're not just evidence," he whispered. "You're a message."
The shadows stirred again, brushing faintly against his voice.
"Or a warning."
He said nothing after that.
Hours passed in silence, broken only by the whisper of wind through the half-open window. His mind still calculating.
"No!" he suddenly exclaimed. "This isn't a message. This.... is a mistake." he said as he probed the feather once more. "I didn't think something like this would show up."
The odd vibe he felt from the feather, the darkness, the cold feeling... There was no doubt about it.
"Chaos Mana."
It had chaos mana flowing through every cell.
"If chaos mana is in this realm...." a slight grin appeared on Asher's face. "....then things are about to get interesting."
As he stood, the candle on his desk had burned to its last flicker.
He tucked the feather into his drawer.
Tomorrow, the instructors would keep searching. Students would whisper, and fear would spread a little more.
But Asher knew better.
This wasn't the act of a murderer.
It was the opening move of something far larger.
Something was in that Academy, but it's presence wasn't sensed.
"Tenebrous Boundary"
*****
The letter sat unopened on the Academy Master's desk.
He had turned it over several times already, eyes tracing the unbroken seal — a silver imprint of the Hi'orei crest.
No courier had been seen entering. No magical disturbance registered. Yet the letter was there, as though it had simply decided to appear.
Master Eiren drew a long breath and broke the seal. The faint hum of mana recognition rippled through the air — authentic. It was undeniably from the head of the Hi'orei Clan.
He read the contents twice. Then again, slower.
"In two weeks' time, the Academy shall enter an unscheduled recess. All instructors are to vacate the grounds, along with yourself and the sentinels stationed at the lower wards. The students must return home. None are to remain within the academy walls."
No explanation. No signature of urgency — just an order, calm and absolute.
Eiren leaned back in his chair, staring at the parchment. His eyes were narrow, calculating.
He had served the Hi'orei family for over five years; he knew their wording well. The patriarch was not a man to issue commands without reason, and certainly not to clear the academy.
Something was wrong.
He folded the letter with deliberate care, sealing his uncertainty behind a mask of composure. "So," he murmured, "even the shadows behind this academy are beginning to stir."
Outside, the bells tolled softly, marking the passing of noon. The sound carried through the corridors and into the upper floors — to Lauren Hi'orei's office.
Lauren stood before her window, eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the academy's barrier shimmered faintly in the sunlight. On her desk lay another envelope, identical in crest and wax.
Her hands rested against the edge of the table, pale knuckles taut. The content of her letter was shorter than the Master's — and far more unsettling.
"When the academy closes, you and your stepbrother will remain. The rest may go."
No reasoning, no reassurance. Just a decree.
Lauren's lips pressed into a thin line. The mana imprint was perfect, the tone unmistakable. But her instincts screamed that something about this was off. Her father didn't write like this — not to her. Not when it concerned secrecy.
'But.....which stepbrother?'
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp click of the door handle.
No knock. Just intrusion.
She turned instantly, expectation flashing in her eyes.
As she noticed the blonde hair instead of hazel that she expected, her eyes became cold.
"Do you ever knock?"
Her voice was cool, but the undercurrent was sharp enough to cut through air.
A tall, lean figure stepped through the doorway, the faintest grin on his lips.
"Come on, Lauren," he drawled, "....is that really how you greet family?"
Ziriah Hi'orei.
His blonde hair was trimmed into a sharp undercut that caught the light when he moved. His uniform was unbuttoned at the collar — a quiet rebellion against decorum — and his posture radiated casual arrogance. His eyes, a pale green that always seemed amused, flicked briefly to the papers on her desk.
Lauren folded her arms. "Knocking costs you nothing, Ziriah. You should try it sometime."
"Then you'd miss the joy of being surprised." He smirked. "Besides, I could tell you were lonely."
She gave him a flat, withering look. "You mistake patience for loneliness."
He stepped further into the room, glancing around with the lazy air of someone inspecting property he already owned. "Still pretending to be the responsible one, I see."
"What do you want?"
He stopped a few feet from her desk, his smirk lingering. "Oh, just checking in on my favorite sister."
"You have a strange definition of 'favorite,'. We're not really related." Lauren replied, turning back to the window. "Now get to the point before I lose my temper."
Ziriah's grin widened, but his tone softened slightly as he reached into his coat and produced an envelope identical to hers. "Got one of these this morning. Thought you might too."
Lauren glanced over, her eyes narrowing. "The same seal?"
'I guess it's him then.'
"The same everything," he confirmed, tossing it onto her desk. "Father's order — apparently we're to stay behind when everyone else leaves."
Her gaze flicked between the two letters, a cold unease settling in her chest. "So it wasn't just me."
"Seems not." Ziriah leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "You look surprised."
"I'm cautious," she corrected. "There's a difference."
He shrugged. "Cautious, suspicious — you've always been good at overthinking."
Lauren turned to face him fully now, her voice low but sharp. "Someone left a sealed letter inside the Academy Master's office without tripping a single ward. That's not overthinking, Ziriah. That's intrusion. And you know exactly what kind."
He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "You think someone forged Father's seal?"
"I think someone's moving through this academy like it's air," she said. "And that's not something I intend to ignore."
There was a pause.
Then Ziriah gave a small, humorless laugh.
"You're still the same, aren't you? Always chasing after ghosts. Always trying to fix what's already broken."
Her expression hardened. "Meaning?"
He met her eyes — still smirking, but there was a sliver of something darker behind it. "You know what I mean. You still can't let go of him."
Lauren froze. "Don't."
"He left," Ziriah continued smoothly. "He ran. You think he was ever strong enough to belong here? To belong to this family?"
Her hands clenched at her sides, but she said nothing.
Ziriah's voice dropped, teasing but edged. "You were always too soft on him. Maybe that's why he left — couldn't stand your pity."
"Enough," she snapped, her voice cutting through the room. "You know he left because of you!"
He raised an eyebrow, but the smirk stayed. "Touchy."
Lauren took a slow breath, forcing her composure back into place. When she finally spoke again, her tone was controlled, icy.
"You talk as if cruelty makes you strong. But all I see is someone who hides behind arrogance because he's afraid of being compared."
That made him pause — only slightly. His eyes sharpened.
She went on quietly. "You're talented, Ziriah. But don't confuse talent for worth."
For a heartbeat, the tension between them was nearly physical — a clash of wills restrained by blood and reputation.
Then, just as easily, Ziriah's grin returned, though thinner now. "You always did know how to ruin a good argument."
Lauren exhaled, steady once more. "Why are you here?"
"I told you — the letter," he said, gesturing lazily. "If it's real, Father wants this place empty. If it's not, someone's playing a dangerous game. Either way, I'd say we're sitting on something worth watching."
She studied him for a moment. "You think the murder is connected."
"I think everything's connected," he replied, eyes glinting. "You just have to look closely enough."
Lauren's gaze drifted toward the letters again. "Then we don't have much time."
Ziriah pushed off the wall, straightening his jacket. "So, what now, dear sister?"
Her reply came without hesitation. "I'm leaving tomorrow."
He blinked. "What?"
"I'm going home. If Father sent these, I'll confirm it. If he didn't…" Her tone turned cold, final. "Then someone is using his name. And that someone has already breached our defenses."
Ziriah's eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "You'll walk right into whatever this is?"
"I'll find answers," she said simply. "You can stay here and watch if you want. Or pretend you don't care. Either suits you."
She turned back toward the window, her reflection faint in the glass — composed, regal, but beneath it, the flicker of worry she wouldn't show him.
After a moment, she heard Ziriah's quiet laugh. "Still playing hero. You really haven't changed."
"Get out," she said softly.
He gave a shallow bow, mocking but graceful. "As you wish."
When the door closed behind him, Lauren finally exhaled. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her letter again.
Something in the ink shimmered faintly, pulsing once before fading — as though the parchment itself breathed.
Her expression hardened. Whatever this was, it was more than politics.
And if her father was truly involved… she needed to know why.
By dawn, her office was empty —
and the carriage that left the academy gates bore no crest, no trace.
Only the faint scent of lavender lingered behind,
and two folded letters still resting side by side on her desk.