That morning, the sun no longer shone through the Academy's glass windows as it usually did.
Instead, there was mist—a thin, cold layer, like a shroud of death draped over the courtyard.
Early students whispered quietly to each other about footsteps heard at midnight, about shadows slipping across the hallway even though no doors had opened, and… about the empty room on the third floor—where the light always stayed on, though no one lived there anymore.
Lyre sat alone in the library, dozens of books stacked around her like a silent fortress of knowledge. But she wasn't reading.
She was watching. Watching the words as if they were whispering. Her right hand trembled, and the old burn scar on her wrist glowed faintly in the windowlight.
No one noticed that her golden eyes were slowly losing their hue—replaced by a dull grey, as though mist was rising from within her sockets.
Geal arrived, as he always did. He brought two cups of dried blossom tea and a book.
> "You're up early," Geal said, his voice as soft as always. "It's not that cold today, you don't have to sit there shivering."
Lyre didn't respond. She was murmuring.
> "Knock... knock... knock…"
"What was that?" Geal tilted his head, thinking she was reading something aloud.
She looked up. Smiled.
A smile soft as a passing breeze—but far too perfect, as if someone had carved it and pressed it onto her face.
> "It's nothing," Lyre said. "Maybe I... dreamt it."
---
That evening, Geal left the library first. Lyre stayed behind. She didn't light a lamp.
In the darkness, she pulled a shard of broken mirror from her pocket. Stared into it for a long time.
The face reflected there no longer belonged to a model student.
It was warped—not because of the crack in the glass, but because something in her eyes had begun to rot.
From her palm, a faint light seeped out—but it was no longer pure white.
It had turned a murky amber, like dried blood soaking into snow.
> "Knock... knock... knock…"
Lyre murmured, slow and rhythmic like an old chant.
Each repetition made her skin twitch, as if an invisible knock were rapping at some inner door.
---
The next day, a student went missing.
His name was Rein. Sixteen years old. Slept in the southern dormitory. Vanished without a trace. No broken doors. No screams.
The last person to see him was Lyre—said he came to the library for a book before curfew.
---
A week later, two more disappeared.
This time, the twin sisters from the magic engineering class.
They vanished after a group mission—with Lyre.
The teachers asked questions. She only lowered her head.
> "They said they wanted to take a walk after class. I left first."
---
Geal started to worry.
He tried to see Lyre more often. But each time, she grew more distant.
Her gaze seemed to pass right through him. Her smile looked like it was pasted on from a mold.
One day he asked:
> "Lyre, are you... okay? Your eyes… they don't look like they used to."
She turned. Tilted her head.
> "What does 'okay' mean?"
"It means feeling pain when others do. It means remembering. Fearing the loss of someone."
"Then... no. I'm not okay," she said, turning away.
"Knock... knock... knock..."
Geal heard it then. For the first time.
Clear as a knock against his sternum.
---
In the bathhouse.
Steam coated the mirror. Magic lamps cast a dim glow across the cold stone.
Lyre stood beneath the endlessly running hot water, her pale skin blotched red from constant scrubbing.
In her hand was a bar of mint soap—crumbled from overuse.
She rubbed it over her skin as if trying to grind herself away.
> "Not clean… not clean…"
Her voice was soft. Like a lullaby. But mad.
> "That stench... why is it... still here?"
She scrubbed harder. The soap suds tinged faint pink.
Lyre looked down at her hands—trembling, covered in red scratches and marks from her own nails.
> "It's in my skin... under my nails... in my hair…"
A sudden cold breeze swept through, though the bathroom had no windows.
In the fogged mirror, her reflection was no longer her own.
It was a girl just like her—but with pitch-black eyes and a mouth torn wide to the ears, smiling a bleeding smile.
> "Knock... Knock... Knock..."
A whisper behind her ear—cold as ice, cutting through flesh.
Lyre spun around. No one was there.
Only the sound of water dripping from the showerhead.
> "I'm not insane… I'm not insane…"
She mumbled, but kept scrubbing as if punishing herself.
> "It's just... not clean yet. This stench... it's not blood.
It's... rotting light…"
She chuckled faintly—then broke down in tears.
---
That night, Lyre sat alone under the ancient tree in the back courtyard.
From her right hand, tiny threads of light unraveled—like pale maggots crawling from her flesh.
A voice echoed in her mind—the voice of that old man from long ago.
> "The light in you is beautiful. But beauty must be trimmed."
"Open the door. They don't understand. But I do."
"Just keep knocking."
"And the true light… will answer."
---
At the chapter's end, Lyre stood before the tall mirror in the northern hallway.
No one else was there.
She placed her hand on the glass, and whispered—not with a human voice.
> "I am the light. I am the shadow of light. I am the blade hidden in the hymn."
> "And you... are just one of the doors I haven't opened yet."
The mirror cracked.