"Attention, everyone!!"
The voice didn't just rise—it descended. Heavy. Clear. Inescapable.
It rang through the enormous gathering hall like a divine decree etched in thunder.
Every student from first to fourth year froze.
Some had only just found seats. Others stood mid-conversation.
But when Seraphiel Vaelthorn spoke, the room obeyed.
The Vice Principal stood tall on the central dais.
Her silver hair—long, loose, and gleaming like polished moonlight—flowed down her back, catching the ethereal glow of the floating chandeliers above.
She wore a tailored obsidian coat layered over a gown of silver-trimmed velvet, adorned at the shoulders with sleek pauldrons that whispered "authority" louder than any badge.
And those eyes…
Emerald green and sharper than glass.
She didn't glance around the room.
She swept through it. Measured. Merciless. Like a lioness counting prey.
But what struck me hardest wasn't her poise. It was the resemblance.
Selene Vaelthorn.
Her daughter.
She was seated somewhere on the upper platforms with the top percentile students, but even from here, the resemblance was undeniable.
Same regal features. Same composure. Same atmosphere of lethal grace.
Except—where Seraphiel's hair was entirely silver, Selene's was raven-black, save for a single bold streak of silver braided down the side like a crown of defiance.
And while her mother's gaze was sharp and commanding, Selene's violet eyes were something else entirely.
Cold. Calculating. Distant.
If Seraphiel looked at you like she could see your crimes, Selene looked at you like she already knew your future—and had judged it beneath her notice.
Two different energies. One bloodline.
"By now, many of you have heard whispers. Some of you were there—at the site of the explosion.
The attempted abduction. The masked men."
Her voice didn't need amplification. It carried.
"Let me be clear. Silver Mist is not compromised. We are not shaken. We are not weak."
A few students whispered. Some straightened their backs.
Even Cassia looked mildly impressed.
"The assailants have been captured. They are being interrogated as we speak.
The school's security matrix has been reviewed and reinforced.
We will get to the bottom of this, no matter the price."
I noticed several staff members nodding in grim approval nearby.
Professor Delacroix, stone-faced.
Instructor Nalia with arms folded.
Magister Renlor Vynes? Just adjusting his gloves like he hadn't disintegrated someone with a stare less than thirty minutes ago.
"To those who acted in defense of their peers—you've earned your names on the Board.
Your contributions have been recorded.
And to those injured, our advanced healing teams are attending to your needs as we speak."
Cassia elbowed me gently.
"You gonna pretend you weren't involved?"
"I was literally just standing there."
"But understand this—" Seraphiel's voice sharpened.
"—this academy was never designed to protect you from the world.
It was built to prepare you to confront it. If you think you'll survive on talent alone, you've already lost."
Silence returned.
Sharp. Humming. Final.
"Classes resume in fifteen minutes. Latecomers will be penalized. This is your only warning."
And with that, Seraphiel turned—her silver hair rippling behind her like a war banner—and walked off the stage as if nothing of weight had been said.
Except everything had.
I didn't even realize I'd been holding my breath until the moment shattered and voices filled the space again.
Cassia grinned beside me. "Gods, I love this place."
I sighed and rubbed my temples.
Honestly, I didn't even know why she was still sitting next to me.
I'd picked the farthest seat in the back of the hall, hoping to blend into the shadows like a proper villain-in-waiting... and yet, there she was.
A very loud, very sharp shadow with zero respect for personal space.
Just as I was contemplating a silent retreat, I spotted her—Glory. My twin, walking toward me with that perfect, untouchable poise.
White hair as flawless as always, flowing behind her like a banner of defiance.
Her blue eyes—my blue eyes—were warm where mine were... not.
She didn't scowl, but I knew that expression: tight lips, slow measured steps, worry hidden under annoyance.
"You're not hurt, right?" she asked immediately, voice firm but threaded with worry.
"I heard you were at the explosion site."
Cassia perked up immediately beside me.
I blinked. "Wow. You already heard?"
Glory's stare didn't waver. "Of course I did."
"Guess word travels fast when your twin's in the middle of an explosion," I muttered.
"Weird how that keeps happening to me."
Then she glanced at Cassia. Eyes narrowing just slightly.
"And when exactly did this start happening?"
she asked, chin tilting. "You and... her?"
Before I could answer, Cassia offered her sweetest, most damning smile.
"Oh, it's nothing serious. He just owes me a teeny-tiny favor," she purred, "and I'm graciously letting him pay it off in installments."
Glory looked at her. Quiet. Calm. Evaluating.
Then, without a word, she turned to me and reached out, gently taking my hand.
"Be careful, Eden. I mean it."
"I know," I murmured.
"I'm going to the library," she said softly. "Try not to get kidnapped before lunch."
And just like that, she was gone, hair flowing like light behind her as she moved through the crowd.
Cassia clicked her tongue. "She's cute. Real... noble. You two don't match at all."
I turned back toward the front of the hall.
The noise, the students shifting, the tension after the incident... it was all still buzzing in the background.
Cassia leaned in.
"So what now, baby boy? Want to go tail a professor? Sneak into a restricted wing?
Or maybe we pop by the interrogation room and play 'Guess That Torture Device'?"
"Yeah... no," I said, backing away. "Not doing this today."
She blinked. "What?"
"I need air. And distance. And possibly a nap. Maybe a coma."
Without waiting for her to reply, I narrowed my eyes.
"Eyes of Horus," I whispered.
Golden light flickered to life.
My irises shimmered.
The world tilted.
{Snowflakes—wait, are you seriously—} Echo began.
But it was too late.
Space folded.
Reality broke.
And I was gone.
Cassia stared at the spot I vanished from, her silver eyes blinking once... twice.
Then she clicked her tongue.
"That lucky bastard. Right when things were about to get interesting."
She turned back toward the stage, but her mind was already elsewhere.
***
Somewhere far from Aetherian Heights—
Far from mortal comprehension, in a place untouched by light or time—
A place that could not be charted, or even described, for the moment it was witnessed, reality itself bent to forget it…
They gathered.
There were no walls, no sky. Just an endless shape of absence, shifting like liquid shadow, and something like a floor that cracked when silence breathed too loud.
And in the center: not a table, not a throne, but a distortion in space. A dark bloom, pulsing.
Seven forms encircled it. Cloaked in garments that didn't fit any world—woven from screams, from time, from veins of the void itself.
Their faces were hidden. If they even had faces.
None of them moved.
But they spoke.
And their voices were not voices.
They were echoes of things that should not be remembered.
"The attempt collapsed."
A low hum followed, like a funeral bell ringing in reverse.
"We expected resistance. But not deviation. There was a shifting."
"The Mark was applied. Her soul knows what it must become. That is enough."
"Is it?" another asked, voice brittle and cold like a glacier cracking.
"The Gate requires sacrifice. The gatekeeper remains unbound."
A silence. Then one stepped closer to the pulse.
The others did not stop them.
"She is the beginning," they murmured. "And if the beginning is not broken… the End will never open."
"Then we try again."
"No," whispered a new voice—older, and deeper than the rest. One that hadn't spoken until now.
It sounded like it had been buried inside every nightmare since time began.
"There are limits to how often the veil can be torn.
Too many eyes are watching now. Too many balances shift."
"The Scribes?" someone asked.
"No. Something deeper. Older than even they."
Another pause. Heavy. Tense.
Then the oldest voice continued.
"Let her believe she is safe. Let the empire rest its eyes. Let the mask be repaired."
"And when?" another whispered, a hiss like ink burning. "When do we strike again?"
"When she bleeds for the second time.
When her dreams burn.
When the roots beneath the Citadel wither from her name."
The pulse in the center twisted suddenly—and screamed.
Not a sound.
But a memory of agony, forced into the present.
And at once, all seven bowed their heads in unison, as a final voice joined them from nowhere.
A voice without a speaker.
A voice from beneath the unformed, unremembered ground.
"The hourglass was shattered the moment she was born."
A stillness followed.
No questions. No challenge.
Only one final line. Spoken not in sound, but inscribed in the unthinking dark.
"Let the mark remain. And let the gods choke on what they made."
Somewhere deep in the Silver Mist Academy infirmary, behind frost-sealed doors and softly glowing crystal wards, she slept.
The room was one of the academy's finest—used only for the critically injured or the especially important.
White velvet curtains veiled the walls, enchanted to dampen sound and magic alike.
Silver-trimmed lanterns floated at the corners, pulsing with a steady heartbeat of light, their runes shifting slowly like breathing.
The air smelled faintly of lavender, sterile but somehow comforting.
Sylvara Elyss Duskbane lay still beneath layers of midnight-threaded linens, her long blonde hair cascading across a pillow of gentle mooncloth.
Her body showed no wounds, not anymore—thanks to the healing work of the professors and third-year menders—but her mind... her soul... told a different story.
Her brow furrowed.
Her lips parted slightly.
A small, trembling breath escaped her.
She was dreaming.
But it wasn't truly a dream.
Somewhere behind the veil of sleep, something had followed her back.
A thin pulse of dark light flickered across the veins of her left arm.
It disappeared as quickly as it came.
Like it was never there. But the sheets twitched.
The ward-lights dimmed for a fraction of a second.
In her vision, Sylvara stood barefoot in a mirror-world, fog-touched and cold.
The floor was glass, showing nothing beneath—just a void, pulling at her bones with every step.
Dozens of mirrors surrounded her, arranged in a circle.
Each reflected a different version of herself: in different uniforms, different expressions, different fates.
One smiled with blood on her mouth.
Another wept, bound in chains of flame. Yet another one was already dead.
And then—
All the mirrors cracked at once.
The sound was deafening.
But no sound came from her lips.
In the real world, her fingers clenched. Her breathing quickened.
Back in the dream, one shard from the mirrors began to float toward her—slow, like time had lost its balance. Inside the shard, she saw something else…
Not herself.
Not the masked assassins.
But a door.
Blacker than space.
Etched with living veins of red.
And it was opening.
Suddenly—
"You are not supposed to be here,"
a voice whispered from behind her in the dream.
She turned. Slowly.
But saw nothing.
Only that the mirrors had shattered further. And all her reflections… were gone.
In the real world, a ward circle glowed red and pulsed once, reacting to the rising magical signature around her.
An alert was silently sent. Somewhere on the upper floors, a monitoring mage stirred, frowning.
Sylvara's lips twitched, but no words came out.
> They marked me,
her mind whispered, deep inside the dream.
They marked me…
Then—
A final pulse of energy faded.
The strange flickers on her skin ceased.
And she stilled again.
The dreamscape vanished.
But its residue remained.
She would awaken soon.
She would remember nothing clearly. Only shadows.
But somewhere inside her, something had been etched.
A memory she never made.
A change she never asked for.
A fate rewritten… too quietly to scream.