Blackwood Academy changed overnight.
Elara felt it the moment morning light crept across her dorm room—thin, pale, unforgiving. The air seemed heavier, the silence tighter, as if the academy were holding its breath.
She dressed slowly, acutely aware of the faint ache in her palm where she had touched the sigil. The mark wasn't visible, but she could feel it—a low thrum beneath her skin, like a memory that refused to fade.
The journal was quiet.
Too quiet.
She opened her suitcase, sliding aside clothes until her fingers brushed the false bottom. When she lifted the panel, the leather-bound journal lay exactly where she had hidden it. No glow. No warmth.
Relief flickered, quickly followed by dread.
At breakfast, the Great Hall felt different too.
Students still murmured in low voices, but now their conversations stopped when Elara passed. Heads turned—not openly, not rudely—but with careful, measured interest.
Watching eyes.
She sat alone at the far end of the table, forcing herself to eat. Every bite tasted like ash.
Lucien arrived late.
He didn't sit beside her. Instead, he took a place two tables away, his posture deliberately casual, his gaze fixed on his plate. When he finally looked up, it was only for a heartbeat—but in that glance, she saw a warning.
They're listening.
Her schedule had changed.
The notice was slipped under her door sometime before dawn, printed on the same thick paper as her scholarship letter.
Reassigned Courses — Effective Immediately
Advanced Literature had been replaced with Ethical Theory III. Cryptography was gone entirely, substituted with Institutional History.
Containment, she realized. Redirection.
In Ethical Theory, the professor spoke at length about obedience disguised as virtue.
"Morality," he said, pacing slowly, "is most effective when the subject believes it is self-chosen."
Elara's pen hovered over her notebook, unmoving.
Someone across the room shifted. She glanced up and found Lucien's gaze on her—sharp, apologetic.
During the midday break, she found the first note.
It waited inside her locker, folded neatly, no handwriting she recognized.
Curiosity carries a debt.
No signature. No symbol.
Her fingers trembled as she crushed the paper in her fist.
"Do not react," Lucien murmured beside her, appearing without warning. "That's what they want."
"Who left it?" she whispered.
"Everyone," he said grimly. "And no one."
They walked side by side through the courtyard, careful not to look like allies.
"They reassigned my classes," she said.
"I know."
Anger flared. "Did you know before it happened?"
"Yes."
She stopped walking. "Then why didn't you tell me?"
Lucien turned to face her, his expression tight. "Because if I had, you would've fought it."
"And?"
"And they would've broken you faster."
Her chest tightened. "You don't get to decide what I can survive."
His voice dropped. "Neither do they."
A pause stretched between them, heavy with unsaid things.
"There's more," Lucien said quietly. "They took someone last night."
Her breath caught. "Who?"
"A second-year. Mara Kline."
Elara's stomach twisted. "I spoke to her yesterday."
"I know," Lucien said. "That's why this is the first cost."
They reached the edge of the courtyard. Lucien stopped, lowering his voice further.
"The Collegium doesn't punish immediately," he said. "They create examples. Make knowledge expensive."
Elara's fingers curled into fists. "What happens to her?"
Lucien didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
That evening, Elara found the journal open on her desk.
She was certain she had left it closed.
The pages fluttered faintly, as if stirred by breath. Ink bled slowly across the paper, forming new words.
One has paid.
Her heart hammered.
She turned the page.
Mistakes are remembered.
Her vision blurred. "This is my fault," she whispered.
The journal did not disagree.
A knock sounded at her door—soft, almost hesitant.
Lucien entered without waiting for permission, his face pale.
"They know," he said.
"About the journal?"
"About you," he corrected. "And what you can do."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the Collegium will test you," he said. "Publicly. Intellectually. Morally."
"And if I fail?"
His jaw tightened. "Then you disappear."
Silence fell.
Elara straightened, something hard and steady forming beneath her fear.
"Then I won't fail."
Lucien studied her for a long moment. "That confidence," he said quietly, "is exactly why they chose you."
She met his gaze, the journal's ink glowing faintly between them.
"Then they chose wrong," she said. "Because I don't intend to play by their rules."
Outside, the academy bells rang once—low and ominous.
The journal's ink shifted, forming a final line.
The debt has been claimed. The balance is not settled.
Elara closed the book slowly.
Whatever Blackwood had awakened in her, it was no longer content to wait.
END OF CHAPTER FIVE