The carriage halted with a soft hiss, the aetheric currents beneath its wheels dispersing into threads of blue light. The gates of Aetherion rose before them, vast, silent, alive.
They were not merely stone and sigil; they breathed. Every few seconds, the surface of the gates shimmered, runes shifting like a great organism inhaling and exhaling light. It was said that the gates recognized the resonance of every soul that passed through—that the academy itself remembered.
Orren, the coachman, whistled under his breath. "I've seen fortresses and cathedrals, my lord, but never a door that stares back."
"It doesn't stare," Iblis said quietly, stepping down onto the platform. "It listens."
The air here was different. Charged. The smell of ozone mingled with faint incense and rain. Each breath seemed to hum through the bones.
Students and attendants bustled past, youths in robes marked with family crests, laughter and excitement barely restrained by noble etiquette. The air carried the languages of distant provinces and ancient houses, each voice a fragment of Khthonia's legacy.
Iblis stood apart, watching.
A herald's voice rang out from the gate's archway. "By decree of the Archon of Knowledge and Keeper of Aetherion, the gates open to the aspirants of this cycle. Step forth, and let your resonance be weighed!"
A low hum began to fill the air. The gates unfolded, not outward, but inward, into themselves, revealing a corridor of suspended light. Beyond it, Aetherion awaited.
Orren dismounted, eyes wide as moons. "By the ley… it's beautiful."
"It's geometry," Iblis replied, adjusting his cloak.
"Geometry's never made my knees shake, my lord."
Iblis gave the faintest of smiles. "Then you haven't met the right shapes."
Orren laughed nervously, scratching his neck. "Suppose this is where I take my leave."
"Yes," Iblis said, stepping toward the radiant passage. "Farewell, Orren."
The coachman hesitated. "If I might say, my lord—"
"You might."
"Whatever they say about your family… don't let it be all that you are."
For a moment, Iblis said nothing. Then, softly, "That would be impossible. They made sure of it."
He entered the corridor without looking back.
---
The light consumed him.
It wasn't blinding, but defining, as if every step drew a line across the boundaries of what he was. His reflection followed him in shards of refracted glass, hundreds of versions of himself walking in parallel. A faint whisper echoed, the voice of the academy's sentience: Identify. Confirm resonance.
"Iblis Veyrahl," he said.
The corridor stilled. For an instant, all reflections froze. Then the walls pulsed once, and the voice responded, quieter: Confirmed.
He emerged into the world within.
---
Aetherion was less a structure and more a vast, living constellation. Floating towers hung suspended by invisible ley currents; bridges of crystal connected sanctums that drifted like islands in an aetheric sea. Stormlight curved overhead, trapped in an endless aurora that painted the academy in liquid color. Every surface—stone, glass, metal—seemed to hum faintly with restrained power.
It was breathtaking, even for him.
Hundreds of students filled the grand courtyard, the air buzzing with laughter, argument, and nervous speculation. Each wore a variation of the academy's robe, personalized by the hues and crests of their houses.
He saw them, the heirs of Khthonia's four great lineages.
House Meridion, wielders of Solar Aether: their robes gleamed with gold filigree, eyes bright as dawn. Their leader, Caius Meridion, stood tall and smiling, his aura radiant and effortless, like the embodiment of morning.
House Virel, masters of Umbral Aether: pale silks, quiet movements, shadows that bent subtly toward them. Selene Virel stood among them, sharp eyes, lips curved in a knowing smirk, the kind of beauty that made others uneasy.
House Dravyn, the Crimson lineage: warriors forged in blood and will. Rhyne Dravyn was unmistakable, broad-shouldered and fierce-eyed, a predator barely disguised by nobility.
And House Caelorn, bearers of Storm Aether: robes embroidered with lightning sigils, voices loud, gestures wild. Among them, Eira Caelorn, a girl with mismatched eyes and wild silver hair—laughed like thunder given form.
Each house represented an empire within Khthonia. Each was a legacy of power.
And each, soon enough, would kneel.
Iblis walked through the crowd, his steps unhurried, his expression unreadable. Conversations stilled as he passed. The whisper began, soft as wind through glass.
"That's him…" "The Veyrahl heir—" "No, he doesn't have a crest—" "They say he's the one who shattered the resonance scale when he was a child—" "Void resonance, right? Impossible level—" "His family practices vivisection rituals. I heard—"
He ignored them. Words were irrelevant data, noise patterns to be observed, categorized, discarded.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the way space seemed to adjust around him, subtle, instinctive. The crowd parted, not from etiquette but instinctive fear. Even those who didn't know his name felt it: the void that walked beside him.
---
A girl's voice pierced through the murmurs. "Excuse me, you're standing on my books."
He stopped.
At his feet, several volumes were scattered, their covers marked with the insignia of a minor noble line, Ilyara, if memory served. He looked up.
The girl who glared at him couldn't have been more than nineteen. Auburn hair, eyes the color of molten amber, freckles barely visible beneath a determined expression. She bent to retrieve her books, muttering under her breath, "Honestly, people think stepping on other's things is—"
"Unintentional," Iblis interrupted, stepping back precisely. "Your gravitational field intersected with my trajectory."
She blinked. "My… what?"
"Never mind."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're strange."
"So I've heard."
He crouched, picking up one of her fallen tomes and handing it to her. The title shimmered in old runic: Foundations of Aetheric Symmetry. He brushed dust from its cover. "You're a first-year."
"So are you," she said.
"Technically." He handed her the book. "You dropped this."
"I noticed."
Her tone was defensive but not hostile. Iblis tilted his head slightly, studying her with mild curiosity. There was no crest on her collar, lesser nobility, perhaps provincial.
"Your resonance?" he asked.
"Lunar strain," she said, chin lifting. "And you?"
"Void."
She blinked. "That's not… possible."
"Apparently, it is."
Before she could respond, a voice boomed through the courtyard.
---
"Students of Aetherion!"
Every head turned.
From the grand balcony of the central spire descended a man, or something near enough. His robes were woven from strands of light and shadow both, shifting with the angle of vision. His eyes were distant stars; his hair, a cascade of silver light that moved as if underwater.
"I am Zephyrion Thal," he said. "Headmaster of Aetherion and custodian of its memory."
The air itself bowed.
"I welcome the aspirants of this age to the crucible of ascension. Here, we refine not merely power, but understanding. You will learn to command the currents that shape worlds, and in doing so, confront the truths that unmake them."
His gaze drifted, slow, searching, and for a heartbeat, it paused on Iblis.
The connection lasted an instant, but the silence that followed carried weight. A murmur spread through the crowd like a ripple in still water.
Zephyrion continued. "You will be divided into Houses of Study, according to your Aether lineage and aptitude. Rankings will determine privilege, research access, and survival."
That last word hung longer than it should have.
"Remember," he said softly, "knowledge hungers. Feed it wisely."
Then, with a motion almost lazy, he lifted his hand. The courtyard's air shimmered, and in a blink, sigils appeared beneath every student's feet, glowing glyphs that rearranged themselves into spirals, circles, and constellations.
The girl beside Iblis gasped. "It's… sorting us."
Iblis simply watched. His glyph blazed darker than the others—a void sigil consuming its own light.
The crowd drew back instinctively. Even Zephyrion's expression flickered, a fraction of a smile or a question.
"Interesting," the headmaster murmured.
And then, in a voice heard only by him: Welcome, child of silence.
---
When the ceremony ended, the students dispersed toward their respective dorms and lecture halls, chattering about classes, rankings, and speculation. Iblis walked toward the northern platform, where the newly sorted scholars of no particular lineage were gathered, the "unaffiliated." His stride was unhurried, measured.
The girl with the books followed at a distance, curiosity overcoming propriety. Finally, she called, "You didn't tell me your name."
"I did," he said without turning.
"No, you didn't."
He paused, looking back over his shoulder, eyes glinting like obsidian caught in starlight. "Iblis."
"Iblis what?"
He smiled faintly. "That's sufficient."
---
From another balcony, Caius Meridion watched him go. "So that's the Void Heir," he murmured.
Beside him, Selene Virel's eyes narrowed. "He's unsettling."
"Unsettling is often another word for extraordinary," Caius replied, still smiling. "And extraordinary is… useful."
Rhyne Dravyn cracked his knuckles. "I don't like him. He looks at people like puzzles."
Eira Caelorn laughed. "Then maybe don't be a puzzle."
---
As night descended, the academy's towers glowed with internal luminescence, veins of light tracing the ley patterns across the sky. Iblis stood at his new quarters' balcony, overlooking the city of Aetherion below. Students laughed in the distance; storms flickered far above.
He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the world. Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered—Zha'thik's faint, amused murmur.
Perfection seeks company.
"I have none," he said aloud.
The whisper chuckled. "You will".
Below, laughter echoed again, soft, human, oblivious.
Iblis opened his eyes. "Let's begin."