The Headmaster's tower stood at the academy's center, ancient stone reaching toward the night sky.
Aerin reached the entrance. Two guards blocked his path.
"The Headmaster doesn't take visitors after—"
"Tell him Aerin Arclight needs to speak with him. Now." Aerin held up the blood-written note. "It's urgent."
The guards exchanged glances. Something in Aerin's voice-or maybe the note-made one of them nod and head inside.
Minutes passed. Aerin's hand never left his grimoire.
Finally, the guard returned. "He'll see you. Follow me."
---
The office was circular. Windows on all sides showed the night sky and sleeping academy below. Bookshelves lined every wall-ancient texts, scrolls, artifacts filled with what looks like ancient magic.
Behind a massive desk carved from black wood sat Headmaster Arvell.
Up close, he looked older than Aerin had realized. Grey hair pulled back. Lines around his eyes that spoke of centuries, not decades. But those eyes themselves were sharp. Ancient.
"Aerin Arclight." Arvell's voice was gentle, almost sad. "I wondered how long it would take you to come to me."
"You knew?" Aerin stepped forward. "You knew they were threatening me?"
"Show me the note."
Aerin handed it over. Arvell read it slowly, expression darkening with each word.
"The Ashen Hand," Arvell said quietly. He set the note down like it might burn him. "So they've found you already. I had hoped for more time."
"They killed my family." Aerin's voice was steady but his hands shook. "Didn't they?"
"Yes."
The confirmation hit harder than expected. Aerin had suspected already, the moment he read the note. But hearing it spoken aloud made it real.
"Why?" His voice cracked. "Why kill them? Why kill everyone?"
Arvell stood slowly. Walked to one of the windows. Looked out at the sleeping academy.
"Because your family knew something dangerous. Something that powerful people want to keep hidden." He turned back. "Your grandmother—she was one of the last true scholars of ancient magic. A researcher, like her father before her. She discovered the truth about where magic actually comes from. About what it costs every time a spell is cast."
"What truth?"
Arvell was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Tell me, boy—do you know what happened to Valefor? The real story, not the propaganda?"
"Only what I've read. That he went mad. Tried to destroy all mages."
"He didn't go mad." Arvell's voice was heavy with old pain. Old guilt. "He saw something. Something the rest of us refused to believe. And when he tried to make us see it—when he tried to warn us-we called him a tyrant. We hunted him. We tried to kill him."
"What did he see?"
Arvell moved closer. His ancient eyes held something like fear.
"That every spell cast, every grimoire opened, every drop of mana used—every mage in this world is feeding something. Something old. Something vast. Something that's been devouring human souls for so long that we've forgotten it exists."
The room suddenly felt too cold.
"What... what is it?"
"We don't know its true name. Your grandmother called it the Hollow Wyrm. An entity from outside our reality. It came here millennia ago and learned to feed on magical energy. But not the energy itself—the source of that energy. Human souls."
Aerin's stomach turned. "That's impossible. Someone would have noticed-"
"Would they?" Arvell's smile was bitter. "It feeds slowly. Takes tiny pieces over decades. A mage dies at sixty or Fifty instead of seventy. Loses memories gradually. Develops strange illnesses. We blame it on magical exhaustion. Overuse or some bloody Natural causes." He shook his head. "But it's not natural. It's what happens when our souls are being.. eaten."
"And Valefor discovered this?"
"He and his research partner—your grandmother—discovered it together. They found ancient texts. Ruins from human civilizations that came before. Evidence that this has happened before. That the Wyrm has destroyed entire magical societies by slowly consuming them from within."
Arvell's expression was grim. "Valefor tried to tell the other noble families. Tried to show them the evidence. They laughed at him. Called him paranoid. So he tried something more... drastic."
"He tried to destroy magic itself."
"To sever humanity's connection to it. To starve the Wyrm." Arvell nodded slowly. "He believed if he could eliminate all mages-cut off the Wyrm's food source-humanity could survive. Start over without magic. Without the parasite."
"But he failed."
"The hero stopped him. The Moonveil heir with her spear Eclipsa. She fought Valefor on the Fields of Broken Sky and..." Arvell trailed off. "We thought she killed him. His body was never found. But Sangreal disappeared that day. And the war ended."
Aerin looked down at his hands. At the faint scars from feeding blood to that same cursed sword.
"And now the sword's back. With me."
"Yes. And that makes you dangerous. Not because you're evil—because you have the potential to see what Valefor saw. Sangreal is one of the only artifacts in this world that can perceive the Wyrm's connections and the one that Can also cut them."
"Is that why the Ashen Hand killed my family?"
"Your grandmother was getting close to proving the Wyrm's existence. She'd found more evidence. Was preparing to publish her research." Arvell's jaw tightened. "The Ashen Hand couldn't allow that. So they killed her. Killed your entire family. Made it look like a random attack by bandits."
"But why? Who are they? Why would they want to hide this?"
"Because the Ashen Hand believes that revealing the truth would cause chaos. Panic. The collapse of magical society." Arvell's expression was complicated. "They're not evil, Aerin. They genuinely believe they're protecting humanity by keeping this secret. Ignorance of the existence of that thing is what they call mercy."
"That's insane."
"Perhaps. But they're powerful. Well-funded. Connected to every major kingdom and magical institution." Arvell's eyes were filled with a bit of fear. "And they have eyes everywhere. Even in this academy."
Aerin's blood ran cold. "There's a spy here?"
"At least one. Maybe more." Arvell moved back to his desk. "That's why you must be careful who you trust. The Ashen Hand doesn't make empty threats. If they've sent you that note, they're already moving against you."
"What do I do?"
"Get stronger. Much stronger. Fast." Arvell pulled out a scroll from his desk drawer. "And survive the Night Hunt."
"What?"
"In three days, ten students will be selected for an elite mission. The Night Hunt—a tradition where S-Class students face real monsters in the Bloodwood Forest." Arvell's expression darkened. "You'll be selected. So will several others. It's supposed to be a test of skill and courage."
"But?"
"But I believe the Ashen Hand will use it as cover for an assassination attempt. Remote location. Dangerous environment. Easy to make deaths look like accidents." Arvell's voice was firm. "You must be ready. Trust your instincts. And for the love of the old gods, don't go alone into the dark."
Aerin took the scroll. His hands still shaking . The fear had crystallized into something harder-Colder.
"If they come for me during the Hunt, I'll be ready."
"Good." Arvell stood. "One more thing, Aerin. About Sangreal."
"What about it?"
"The sword is powerful. But it's also hungry. The more you feed it, the more it will want. Eventually..." Arvell hesitated. "Eventually, you may have to choose between the sword's power and your humanity. Valefor made his choice. He fed it everything—his blood, his memories, his very soul. By the end, we don't know if it was Valefor wielding Sangreal or Sangreal wielding Valefor. Thats probably why he made such a ruthless decision."
The sword's heartbeat pulsed faintly beneath Aerin's cloak.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
"I'm not Valefor," Aerin said quietly.
"No. But you carry his sword. His blood. His curse." Arvell's eyes were ancient and sad. "The question is-can you be stronger than he was? Can you resist what he couldn't?"
Aerin didn't have an answer.
"Go Rest. Train and Prepare for whats coming." Arvell gestured to the door. "The Hunt is in three days. After that... well. If you survive, come see me again. There's more you need to know and its only worth the share if I deem you strong enough to handle it."
Aerin turned to leave. Reached the door. Paused.
"Headmaster?"
"What?"
"My grandmother. Before she died. Did she... did she leave anything? Any research? Any clues?"
Arvell was quiet. Then: "She left one thing. Hidden. Encrypted. I've spent three months trying to decode it." He pulled out a small leather journal from a locked drawer. "Perhaps you'll have better luck. It only opens for Arclight blood."
He tossed it to Aerin. The journal was small. Old. Bound in dark leather that felt warm to the touch.
"Don't open it here. Don't open it anywhere public." Arvell's voice was serious. "If what I suspect is inside that journal gets out before you're ready, the Ashen Hand won't wait for the Hunt. They'll come for you immediately."
Aerin tucked it into his cloak. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You may curse me for giving you that before this is over."
Aerin left the tower and walked back through the empty academy grounds.
The journal felt heavy against his chest. Heavier than it should.
His grandmother's last research. The truth she'd died trying to reveal.
And in three days, assassins would come for him in the Bloodwood Forest.
Aerin looked up at the moon. Thought about Kael's loyalty and about Seren's lovely visits. About the sword pulsing beneath his cloak.
I'm not Valefor, he thought. I won't become him.
But deep down, a small voice whispered : What if you don't have a choice?