The last of Kyle's things fit into a single trunk.
His life felt more and more absurd.
He could still feel the power clawing just beneath his skin. His right eye still pulsed with occasional blue sparks whenever his heartbeat spiked. His thoughts weren't quiet. The voice—silent now—was likely just waiting for a more inconvenient moment.
But all the Academy wanted from him was to pack his things and move along.
He clicked the trunk shut and handed it to the waiting porter golem outside the dormitory door. The thing bowed with mechanical politeness, then trudged toward the carriages waiting in the lower court.
Kyle took one last look at the West Hollow common room—his once-temporary prison cell.
Empty.
Even the light felt artificial now, like it had always been part of the illusion.
Sigh. "I won't miss this place anytime soon. My damned prison cell."
Down in the departure hall, he passed the others, already in various stages of leaving.
Cynric gave him a nod. That was all. No handshake. No speech.
Orin, surprisingly chipper, seemed rewound to before the attack. "Don't get possessed again. Try to make that a once-a-semester thing. I seriously don't want to tell a therapist my best friend's possession might be contagious."
Kyle laughed. "At least make sure to tell them I looked good doing it."
Vera chuckled as she walked in. "Aren't you boys just adorable when you're happy and smiling?" she cooed, pressing a folded scrap of parchment into Kyle's palm. "Take care, boys—and please don't turn into a tomato, Orin."
Kyle chuckled as Orin went through all shades of pink to red.
He opened the parchment.
Don't give up. If you need any assistance, contact the Alaric Noble Family.
Mirai arrived last, assisted by one of the Guardian golems. She still carried the cane, though she moved faster now. Stronger.
They made eye contact.
Nothing more.
She climbed into her transport without a word.
Kyle was fine with that. He understood the space they both needed.
His carriage rolled out from the west gate shortly after. Blackwood frame. Silver rims. Pulled by twin Nirevian-bred horses with mirrored eyes. No crest marked the side—not for students like him.
Outside the Academy's walls, he was nothing more than an orphan again.
The roads were mostly quiet at this hour.
The academy receded behind him like a stone myth dissolving into the hills.
Hours later, in a small forest, the driver slowed.
Another carriage had stopped ahead.
Two guards in blue stood watch as a young man stepped out to stretch his legs.
Kyle recognized the cut of the coat before he saw the face.
Royal navy. Silver thread. House Malloran's winter trim.
Chris.
The boy had recovered since the attack—still pale, but with no visible injuries. His hair was slicked back. Clean. His boots were spotless.
He looked over as Kyle's carriage slowed beside his.
A pause.
Recognition.
Chris raised a hand.
Kyle opened the window—reluctantly.
A beat.
Chris spoke first. "I didn't think we'd be heading the same direction."
Kyle's tone was ice. "Neither did I, though we do live in the same southern region."
"We're going to the estate. I'd like to formally acquaint you with my father."
Kyle didn't reply.
Chris hesitated. "I never got to thank you."
"For what?" Kyle asked, somewhat surprised.
"You didn't let me die."
Kyle stared at him, expression unreadable.
"I'm human. Death isn't a nice sight—regardless of the victim."
Chris blinked. "That's true."
Another silence passed.
Kyle leaned back.
Then, without looking: "Enjoy your estate, Chris."
He closed the window.
His carriage pulled ahead.
He never looked back.
Ahead, nestled between forested ridges and silver rivers, Willows Rest waited.
Quiet. Too quiet.
The trade routes of eastern Nirevia were hushed in early winter. Not silent—just subdued. Trees shifted in the breeze, their dying leaves whispering to the ground. Birds chirped only at a distance, as if halfway to migration.
The road narrowed from stone to dirt, then to packed gravel.
The sign read: WILLOWS REST.
Nothing had changed since he'd left.
Which made it worse.
Kyle leaned forward in the carriage as it creaked into view. Thatched roofs. Stone chimneys. Market banners faded by sun and wind. The crooked statue in the center still stood—cracked and listing to one side.
People saw the carriage.
Some turned.
Some didn't.
A few recognized it immediately. When Kyle stepped out onto the road, pulling his single trunk behind him, the air changed.
A merchant woman paused mid-sale.
A boy at the well suddenly remembered something urgent and ran.
A pair of old men in front of the pub squinted.
Then one of them spoke—loud enough to hear:
"He's back?"
"What's with that look of his?"
"Is it really him?"
Kyle kept walking. Confused himself by the less-than-welcoming mood.
The chief's house stood just outside the village rim.
A short walk down a slope, past an old iron fence.
The house he'd grown up in.
Memories surfaced of a boy running amok through the halls.
Back when I had no care in the world. Now look at me, he thought, chuckling softly.
No one had touched the place in a while. The windows were dusty. The roof sagged slightly. A padlock on the door.
Then—footsteps behind him.
He didn't turn. "You should take better care of the house, old man."
A voice answered—uncertain and aged. "You're Kyle, right?"
Kyle turned.
A man in patched wool stood there, maybe late 40s or 50s, with the look of someone half-daring himself to be brave.
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "It's been months, but really? Is the dementia finally kicking in, Roland?"
The man laughed—tears in his eyes. "I can't believe it's really you, my boy. How you've changed… you've grown taller. And odd-looking."
Kyle's voice softened. "It's a fashion trend." He winked.
Roland hesitated.
"Esmeralda might not appreciate losing her handsome young man to fashion."
A pause.
Then both of them laughed—genuinely, for the first time in a long while.
Kyle stood at the door. "I think you should let me in. It wasn't a short journey, you know."
Roland nodded and unlocked the door.
As it creaked open, dust swirled in the air like something exhaling after a long sleep.
Kyle stepped inside. Coughing.
"Old man, you need a lashing for this mess."
Roland coughed with him, waving a hand in front of his nose. "Don't act like I was expecting royalty. Place hasn't had anyone in it since… well, since you."
Kyle stepped through the threshold.
The air was still. Cold—not from temperature, but time. It had settled in the corners like mildew.
Same chipped floorboards.
Same lopsided table.
Same overhead lamp with the flickering rune.
He ran his fingers along the kitchen counter. Dust clung like the house wanted to keep its layers.
"You didn't even try to keep it livable?"
Roland shrugged, leaning in the doorway. "Didn't feel right. Wasn't my house. Didn't want to disturb any memories."
Kyle's jaw tightened just a little. "Technically and factually, it's your house."
"I wouldn't have minded," he added. "You should've looked after it when I left for the Academy."
Roland lazily dusted a picture frame. "Locked the door and fed the crows. That's about all."
Kyle dropped his trunk by the wall and walked farther in. Past the old hearth. Past the cracked ceramic vase still on the mantle.
"When did you get crows?"
"About a week after you left. They kept circling the house, so I fed them. Now they're pets. It's three of them, by the way."
Kyle walked down the hallway and paused at three doors.
One to the cellar.
One to the study.
One to his room.
He opened it.
Everything was smaller than he remembered.
The bed was made—untouched since he last lay in it. His old books were still stacked in the corner: Hunting for Beginners, Legends of Nirevia, and that pirate novel he never finished. His coat still hung on the peg, sleeves now too short.
And on the desk—
A letter.
The wax seal cracked.
The paper dry, almost crumbling.
He walked over and picked it up.
His acceptance letter from Sanctum Magna—the one that had turned his ordinary life into a chaotic cycle of confusion, suffering, and discontent.
Roland knocked lightly on the doorframe. "Should I give you space? I heard why you're back early. Figured it might be… a lot."
Kyle nodded. "Yeah."
When the door shut, he slumped onto his bed.
Unfamiliar words played in his head like a record:
"You walked through the gate. You spoke to the Five. You saw the red crystal. Now we will see if you remember why."
The voice in his head was his own.
No blame to place.
No entity to scold.
Just memory.
Just uncertainty.
He didn't speak aloud.
But as he drifted off to sleep, the question echoed:
What now?