The wave of corruption had struck with terrifying force—and then receded with an abruptness that was almost cruel.
The asphalt-black markings that had seared across Lionel's body vanished as if a tide had pulled them back, and his rolled-back eyes returned to their natural color—lifeless, devoid of any spark. His body slackened, collapsing to the floor in a deep, unresponsive stupor, as though the monstrous surge had drained every ounce of his vitality.
Immediately, several agents clad in full protective suits, bearing the Magic Association's Purification insignia, moved forward. Their runic energy scanners emitted a low hum, sweeping repeatedly over Lionel's still form. The team leader consulted the crystal readouts, then spoke through his respirator with a mix of relief and lingering puzzlement:
"Corruption energy readings have returned to zero. Vital signs stable. Psionic activity minimal and pure. No residual contamination detected. Assessment: severe exhaustion due to psionic backlash. Recommend placement on observation roster."
Inspector Walker, the third-tier Mindwhisperer overseeing the ceremony, frowned sharply, his gaze like a finely honed blade. He scanned the unconscious Lionel and the pale, slightly trembling figure of Elara nearby. Experienced as he was, he caught a fleeting anomaly: just before the violent corruption surge was severed, an extraordinarily faint—but perfectly stable and calm—wave of energy had intervened. Its texture was unlike any known psionic imprint, more akin to the instantaneous purification and soothing effect of a highly refined alchemical elixir. The impression vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.
His gaze ultimately fixed on Elara. Earlier, her psionic fluctuations had been chaotic enough to threaten an explosion. Yet now, her energy field was remarkably stable, clearly holding at the level of a Tier-Two Acolyte. Subtle, but within certification standards. Perhaps sheer terror had inadvertently suppressed her instability.
"Sir… about this—" an assistant's voice broke hesitantly.
Walker paused, considering. Lionel's aberration defied complete explanation, yet no contamination remained. To openly investigate a 'clean' civilian would stir unnecessary panic and suggest incompetence. And as for Thorne… her actions were unusual, yet procedurally valid. That brief 'soothing' effect could reasonably be attributed to a momentary surge of latent potential induced by extreme fright—a rare, but plausible, event. He needed a report that satisfied logic and preserved order.
"Record: Subject Lionel Evans experienced an extremely rare psionic backlash during Awakening, triggering temporary psychological aberration, superficially resembling mild corruption. Currently naturally stabilized. Determination: Awakening failed, no contamination detected. Placed on long-term observation roster."
Walker's voice was cold, masking the unknown behind official terminology. He then addressed Elara, softening his tone just enough to seem measured, yet still imposing scrutiny:
"Subject Elara Thorne: certification valid. Initial Tier: Tier-Two Acolyte. Her empathic tendencies may have been passively amplified during the incident, contributing positively to stabilizing the situation. Detailed assessment to be conducted by senior mentors upon arrival."
An ostensibly logical conclusion, covering all lingering uncertainties. On the surface, the crisis had passed, and order returned.
Elara lowered her head, sleeves trembling from residual strain—the aftershocks of forcing the potion's power against the corrupted psionic surge. A cold nausea churned in her stomach. She had successfully navigated the ordeal, yet Walker's final, probing glance made it clear she had been marked; she was far from safe.
Days later, the fuel-powered train chugged out of Slagtown, black smoke billowing like a weary steel beast exhaling its last breath. Riveted steel and thick glass formed the carriage; hard wooden benches lined its interior. The air was pungent with burnt fuel and the mingled sweat of cramped passengers.
Elara sat by the window, watching the soot-darkened slums of Slagtown recede, replaced gradually by wide, war-ravaged plains. Charred craters pocked the fields; massive steam conduits snaked across hills like crawling serpents. Occasional patrols of Vigils gleamed in the muted light, armor dark and sharp, a reminder of endless conflict.
Across from her sat Lionel. His face was still pale, but no longer hollow; his eyes flicked cautiously toward her. The Association's final decree had arrived: in light of his Awakening anomaly's 'rare research value,' he was allowed passage to Silver Star City—not as a student, but as a Tier-Two Auxiliary, under continuous observation. A lifeline born of despair, but a cage nonetheless.
The journey dragged on, the rhythmic pounding of wheels over iron rails echoing through dark tunnels and across roaring iron bridges. At a mid-station halt, a young Silver Star messenger dashed along the platform, insignia of gears and stars stitched to his chest, and slipped a sealed letter through the window to Elara.
The envelope was fine, thick parchment, faintly scented with ink and subtle traces of arcane incense. The seal bore not the Academy emblem, but Kaelan Blackwood's personal mark—a stylized anvil encircled by abstract stellar runes.
*To my sister, Elara:
Received and read with my thoughts beside you.
I am pleased your certification passed smoothly. Slagtown's dust and smoke are behind you; Silver Star City is where your wings may truly spread. I have arranged all matters within the Academy: your residence will be in the Wind-Speak Tower under my supervision, allowing proper oversight. The city's grandeur surpasses anything you have known. Gears and magic here form a symphony of power and knowledge. Only within can you fully grasp the weight of survival and the responsibilities we shoulder. Your initial courses have been personally selected and mentors assigned. You need not worry about mundane duties; simply follow my guidance.
Also, Ashshadow District is currently unsettled. Abyssal fluctuations are abnormal; take care on your journey. I will meet you at the central hub station.
Awaiting our reunion in this sacred place. Remember, Academy discipline is severe—nothing like home. Proceed with care; all is under my watch.
Brother, Kaelan Blackwood
Observatory Tower, Silver Star Academy*
The letter slid from her fingers to the carriage floor, the dusk's shadows thickening around her like a constricting grip. Every phrase felt like a finely forged invisible shackle: "under my supervision," "follow my guidance," "all is under my watch."
He would meet her at the station. This was no concern—this was escort. Silver Star City was no freedom; it was a gilded prison.
A surge of icy anger and defiance swelled in her chest. No—she would not step onto that platform to be easily 'captured,' losing her last measure of autonomy.
The train's whistle shrieked, wheels grinding, pulling forward. Elara bent, gathering the letter, slipping it into her pocket with an impassive expression. She looked toward the horizon, where the city's outline crystallized through the mist. Towering ivory spires pierced the vapor, gears and structures stacked in an immense, precise machine, radiating awe and suffocating authority.
Her gaze hardened, cold as tempered steel.
She slid her hand into her bag, fingers brushing over carefully hidden items: colored elixirs, alchemical powders, old bone fragments inscribed with otherworldly runes… her entire arsenal and last resort. She must find a way to escape before the train reached the central station, before Kaelan's gaze could lock onto her. Perhaps in the chaos of arrival, or by creating a subtle disturbance, she could slip away unnoticed…
Her pulse raced with the thrill of plotting, her breath shallow and quick.
Lionel, across from her, observed silently with the keen, measured attention of someone who had learned to survive in the slums. He had seen the shift in her expression as she read the letter, caught the flash of determination and tension in her eyes. In Slagtown, that expression meant desperation, and a willingness to risk everything.
Then, unexpectedly, he spoke. Low, yet piercing over the persistent clatter of wheels:
"That day… in the Sanctuary," he paused, eyes locking with her sharp, wary gaze, "I knew it was you."
Elara tensed, fingers in her sleeve brushing against the small packet of blinding powder.
Lionel did not avert his gaze. There was no threat in his eyes, only the quiet, resolute calm of someone who had stared into the abyss and survived, and a trace of gratitude. "That black… thing. It wanted to consume everything. I was terrified. Then… I felt it. A warm, still force, like light, pushing it away. It wasn't the glyph." He leaned forward slightly, voice lower, almost a breath, "That feeling… it's like the faint… difference I sometimes smell from you."
Elara's blood ran cold. Her deepest secret—the one she had nearly destroyed herself to hide—had been glimpsed by the very boy she had impulsively saved.
Lionel, seeing her pale face, shook his head gently. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. You saved me. Without you, I would have died—or become a monster." He added, with a gravity far beyond his age, tempered by life in the slums: "People from Slagtown know the rules. When to stay silent, and when… to repay a debt."
The carriage fell into silence. Only the unrelenting clang of steel wheels against iron tracks persisted, carrying them inexorably toward the radiant yet merciless prison city.